


Bread of Life

by khal_blaine



Category: Glee, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Crossover, District 9 (Hunger Games), M/M, Personal Growth, The Capitol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3478958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khal_blaine/pseuds/khal_blaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fashion designer and Capitol citizen, Kurt Hummel, has been given a great honor, chosen as a first-time Stylist for the 74th annual Hunger Games. To assist him and ensure his comfort while dealing with an increasingly busy schedule, a high-performing Avox is temporarily assigned to him by the Gamemakers. Kurt is certain they’ve met before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Most of this story is centered on locations, situations, and character roles that are not described in depth (or at all) in the source material. In writing this fic, I consulted The Hunger Games novels, the first film, and the fanmade online THG Wiki whenever possible to help portray Panem accurately, but I have taken certain creative liberties in order to expand the world and create this story for Kurt and Blaine.
> 
> This is a completed fic, 40k words in length, and it will be updated twice a week (on Mondays and Thursdays) until its completion.

* * *

"What's an Avox?" I ask stupidly.  
"Someone who committed a crime. They cut her tongue so she can't speak," says Haymitch. "She's probably a traitor of some sort. Not likely you'd know her."  
"And even if you did, you're not speak to one of them unless it's to give an order," says Effie.

\- _The Hunger Games_ , p. 76, by Suzanne Collins

* * *

** Prologue **

It’s only August. The 65th Hunger Games ended just a little over a month ago, but the early planning stages for the 66th Games are well underway. A group of mastermind collaborators is already busy at work crafting conceptual arenas, obstacles, and new technology to enhance the spectacle of the nation’s most anticipated annual event. Having one’s father be among the revered team of Gamemakers is an undeniably exciting prospect for a young man or woman growing up in the sometimes droll luxury of life in Panem’s Capitol.

Burt Hummel graciously accepted the Head Gamemaker’s invitation to join their ranks this year after running a widely-publicized, though ultimately unsuccessful political campaign to be elected to head the office of Welfare and Public Relations, a government institution characteristically meant to act as liaison between the Capitol and Panem’s Districts, fostering patriotism and unity throughout the land. Though all the office has accomplished in the last few decades is creating propaganda documentaries and video clips that bookend television broadcasts each morning and night, the Capitol citizens apparently saw little need for change, voting in the same official who has been in power there since before Kurt was born.

Of course there were whispers of tampered poll results as soon as they were announced—Burt had been quite well-received for a previously unknown candidate—but no one dared nor cared enough to investigate.

In the wake of his loss, Kurt’s father has set aside his political career and turned to the very different title of Gamemaker to fill his free time. And with Burt his only legal guardian, Kurt has been granted the rare opportunity to join his father at the Gamemakers’ weekend meetings.

They take place at the Tribute Training Center in the middle of the Capitol. Before this adventure, Kurt had only ever seen it from the outside. He’s not allowed into the meetings themselves for confidentiality reasons, but Kurt doesn’t mind at all. There are more than enough things around the multiple floors of the virtually-deserted Training Center to keep an imaginative 14-year-old boy occupied. He visits every room he can access, seeing where the tributes sleep, train and spend their time in the days before they’re sent to the Arena. Kurt enjoys taking the elevator up to the open-air rooftop most of all; it gives him a view of his city like he’s never seen before. If he squints hard enough against the sunlight, he can almost see the edge of the tall wall that surrounds his home in the distance, keeping Capitol citizens in and the District dwellers out.

He rejoins his father for the meals that always follow the Gamemakers’ meetings. Each one is a celebration of the new, inventive ideas thought up during the course of the day and a chance to instill camaraderie within the group. If there’s one thing every Capitol citizen can bond over, after all, it’s the succulent endlessness of the food on their heavily-laden tables.

He’s been visiting the Training Center with his father for a month when Kurt first lays eyes on him. The young boy trails behind an older Avox that Kurt has seen here before serving their meals. He’s wearing the same white uniform in a much smaller size. He’s an Avox, too.

He can’t be any older than Kurt. The Capitol boy has never seen a servant this young.

The Avox is obviously new, still in training. He shadows the other, observing her every move, every silent response she makes, every order she follows—the way she carries trays and sets them down, the way her gaze stays low to the ground. Kurt can practically see the boy’s mind working as he strives to commit every movement to memory. Though he tries to remain composed, Kurt notices his small hands fidgeting at his sides, twisting in the white fabric draped loose around his thin body.

Most striking of all are his eyes. Even from across the room, Kurt can see them, wide and filled with thinly-masked emotion. Fear and apprehension. Each one is red-rimmed and puffy, with dark circles lining the surrounding skin, so deep and sunken Kurt is fooled for a moment into thinking he’s wearing an avant-garde style of makeup. It looks as though he hasn’t found sleep in days and the only time he hasn’t spent crying is when he’s been forced into formality to shadow his silent mentor and learn his place. There’s an odd bandage on his throat, too, that Kurt can’t help but stare at, wondering how he’d managed to hurt himself in a place like that.

For three consecutive weekends, Kurt sees the young Avox at the Training Center when he takes his meals with the Gamemakers. The first two weeks, the silent boy only follows the older woman, watching closely but keeping a measure of distance. Then on the third Saturday, while the woman serves the adults glasses of wine, the curly-haired boy shuffles over to where Kurt sits, lips drawn tight together as he approaches.

Kurt stares, fascinated and curious. He knows what Avoxes are sent here for. He knows why they’re rendered mute and why they’re forced to spend their lives serving to absolve themselves of their crimes.

But what sort of traitorous act could such a small boy accomplish?

The Avox is standing there before him, and he’s holding up two pitchers. They look far too heavy in his small hands. Water in one and what appears to be apple juice in the other. Kurt realizes after a beat that he’s supposed to make a decision.

“Um,” he stumbles. “Juice. I’ll have the juice.”

The boy nods, two quick, shallow bobs of his chin, and carefully sets the water pitcher down on the floor beside him before reaching out with his free hand toward the table. He’s more than tall enough, but the chairs of all the Gamemakers are pressed in close together, and the empty glass by Kurt’s plate is just a bit too far for him to get to without invading someone’s personal space. He’s meant to be largely unseen and completely unheard, but his palm brushes against a fork and sends it knocking against the spoon to the left. The metallic clank is so minute and quiet that none of the Gamemakers even appear to register the sound, but the Avox looks for a fleeting moment like he might burst into tears right on the spot.

Kurt grabs the glass and moves it the rest of the way into the boy’s outstretched fingers.

The Avox pulls back sharply, for the first time looking up to make eye contact. Kurt sees his mouth twitch. His lips move in an automatic attempt to speak, perhaps to say thank you, before his face pales and his eyes are focused straight back down once more. Kurt is jarred by the expressive face; all Avoxes he’s ever encountered have mastered the cool, stoic demeanor that matches so perfectly with their silence. This boy, however, is a constantly shifting puzzle.

He pours the juice into Kurt’s glass with a shaking hand, holds it out to him and bows his head low. As soon as the drink is taken from his grip, the boy scrambles to pick up his second pitcher and walk as quickly as he can to the older Avox who is waiting for him near the door, already long finished with her own duties around the table. As they exit and the door closes behind them, Kurt thinks he sees her place a hand on the boy’s shoulder as if to comfort him.

“You didn’t eat much today, kiddo,” Burt observes after the meal is over. Kurt nods. He had left most of his plates at least half-full when they were carried away. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Mhm,” he says. “Just thinking about stuff.” Burt gives him an odd look and Kurt licks his lips, distinctly aware of his tongue darting out of his mouth. What would it be like to lose such a simple ability?

“What kind of stuff?” Burt prompts. Kurt remembers that he’s supposed to be elaborating.

“The Avoxes,” he murmurs. This catches the attention of the two other Gamemakers closest by. They stare at him as he continues, “That little boy. He’s my age. I was wondering what he did to get here… where he came from. He- He looked so sad.”

Burt’s eyes dart to his colleagues. Kurt sees all three of the men exchange a serious glance, and for some reason he feels like he’s already being scolded, even though they haven’t spoken a word to him yet.

“Kurt, you know you can’t talk about things like this,” says Burt sternly. “If an Avox is here, it’s because they’ve done something bad. You understand that, right?”

“I know. I just thought-”

“No. I won’t have my son talking nonsense about traitors. You know just as well as I do how much I care about the people in our Districts; I tried to get in the best position I could to help them during this last election. But once they’ve acted out against the Capitol or against President Snow and they wind up here? They’re not Panem citizens anymore.”

The other Gamemakers listening in are nodding in arrant agreement. Kurt remains still, unsure of what he’s feeling.

“You remember your place and let them remember theirs,” he counsels. “If they’re here, they’ve done something to deserve it. Now, I don’t want you talking like that again, you hear me?” Burt maintains a gentle tone, but Kurt can tell he’s not going to accept any response other than concession.

“Yes, Dad.”

“Good. Now let’s get you some more dessert, huh?” The tense moment passes in the blink of an eye. Burt’s smiling again now, the same lovable, caring father Kurt has always known. “This cheesecake’s got my son’s name written all over it.”

Kurt tries to match his smile, but his thoughts are still distant, focused on the Avox who’d nearly tried to speak to him today before his face had gone white as the uniform he wore. He is haunted by the tired, bloodshot eyes set into a bony face. Kurt has never seen anyone truly malnourished before; he doesn’t even have the word for it. But he knows this Avox is unhappy and scared, and Kurt’s first face-to-face glimpse of human suffering leaves a mark on the privileged boy from the Capitol’s cradle.

The following weekend, Kurt anticipates the young Avox’s arrival at their afternoon meal, so much so that the hours drag on while he explores the Training Center. Even his favorite nooks and discoveries are boring to him today, paling in comparison to his fascination with the boy who could not speak.

But when the meal finally comes, the older female Avox comes alone.

The next week, she is alone again.

And the next week as well.

The boy has been sent elsewhere, Kurt knows then. He doesn’t know much about the logistics of the Avoxes who move through the Capitol like ghosts, doing the labor that no one else would ever do. But Kurt knows they are often transferred or rotated, sometimes for no reason at all. The young Avox is somewhere else in the Capitol now, probably as far from Kurt as his father could request.

The weeks pass, turning into months, and Kurt stops visiting the Training Center altogether as the 66th Games finally draw near and the Gamemakers are kept so busy that Kurt is left in the care of a family friend while Burt is almost always out and about.

Kurt watches the Games like he does every year—like they all do—arguing with his friends about who will come out on top as the Victor. He criticizes foolish decisions and weapon choices by tributes who make a single wrong move that sends another canon blast echoing through the Arena. He chooses a favorite tribute, a handsome boy from District 2 who is fast with a thrown spear and never misses the mark when he aims to kill. He cries in show for his friends when “his” tribute falls, bludgeoned to death by a heavy stone in the hands of the girl from District 11. In the excitement of the Games, the Avox finally begins to slip from Kurt’s mind, his once-clear features going fuzzy.

As the years pass, the Capitol boy grows into a young man. He experiments with hair styles, spends his free time designing and poring over the latest fashion magazines, and has a string of almost-lovers who are never quite good enough for Kurt Hummel’s tastes. The years pass with more partying, bloodshed, and slaughtered children each June, and eventually Kurt seems to forget the Avox altogether.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Eight Years Later_ **

Kurt’s natural affinity for fashion is the perfect talent to possess in the Capitol. No design is too bold, no outfit too impractical. He has free reign to let his imagination take over as he turns to his sketchbooks, still preferring the simplicity of paper and pencil as opposed to the technology that other designers his age are turning to.

And unlike most Capitol designers who rely on outside labor to make their designs a reality, Kurt almost always makes the outfits and accessories he designs by hand— _his_ hands. It first begins as a necessity; not even a pampered 15-year-old in the Capitol of Panem can easily find an adult who will perform such a taxing chore for no monetary return. While his father refuses to pay for others to transform his son's designs into something real (telling Kurt that he can never learn the true value of something without exploring it himself), Burt still dotes on him and his budding skills, setting aside an entire room of their home for Kurt and filling it with sewing machines, fabrics, and everything else he needs. There's a learning curve to master when Kurt begins turning sketches into tangible creations, but Kurt finds quickly that he enjoys the process, and that using his own hands to craft a masterpiece only ever improves the end result. No one knows his own sketches better than he does, after all.

It isn’t long until his talent and passion gets him noticed. Every work he produces is one-of-a-kind, and the citizens of the Capitol are always clamoring for The Next Big Thing, never shy in their search to find something unique to set them apart from all the rest of their friends.

By the time he turns 18, Kurt is already earning enough to make a decent living from his craft, and he moves into his own apartment in a quieter part of the city. By the time he turns 20, Kurt’s name is plastered over the same fashion magazines he’s read for years, with models throughout the Capitol clamoring to get into his clothing for their next photoshoots. Kurt’s life is every bit as luxurious and rich with society and wealth as it should be. He can’t imagine anything else making him any happier.

But when Kurt turns 22, he is given the opportunity to be an official Stylist for one of the two dozen Tributes in the 74th annual Hunger Games. The offer is unexpected, and Kurt is utterly thrilled. Not very many people in the Capitol ever get the chance to participate in the Games beyond watching, betting on, and Sponsoring tributes. Kurt accepts, of course, and spends the next few days eagerly awaiting the announcement of the District selected for him. When Kurt finally receives the memo with the official Capitol seal—hand-delivered to his doorstep by one of the Gamemakers—he opens the folded edges of the thick paper with deliberate slowness to draw out the feeling of anticipation, and his mind wanders through the possibilities.

He could receive District 1, luxury. The options for glamorous outfits would be endless. He could stud fabric with precious stones or weave the purest silk through the tribute’s hair, shimmering whenever it caught the light. District 4, fishing, could see his tribute in a skin-tight, scaled suit to suggest streamlined agility. Even District 10, with the archaic duties of tending to Panem’s livestock, had the potential to inspire an eye-catching entrance in the Tribute Parade and in consecutive interviews broadcast to the whole country. Leather could be used in so many interesting ways, after all.

 _“In the 74th annual Hunger Games,”_ the memo reads, _“Stylist Kurt Hummel is assigned to the male Tribute of District 9, grain. Prep teams are currently being organized and will be meeting with Head Stylists within the next week. Stylists in need of additional assistance handling their affairs during this busy time, or in need of answers to any Games-related inquiries should contact Seneca Crane, Head Gamemaker.”_

Kurt sighs.

Grain. Endless farmland. How much more dull can something get? District 9 definitely isn’t his first choice. However, Kurt knows he is more than capable of creating something great from very little. And if he can turn a scrawny field hand into a sight that rivals that of a male tribute from a wealthier District, it will only serve to further his notoriety. He can do this. It will be a challenge, perhaps, but nothing he isn’t able to overcome as long as he gets started early.

That same afternoon he contacts Seneca Crane with the information provided at the bottom of the letter and inquires about the possibility of a trip to District 9, in the name of “seeking inspiration”.

“I know it’s not typical,” confesses Kurt into the phone, “but I know a brief journey there, a tour of the District, could really help me produce the best work possible. I mean, the closest I’ve ever seen to a real field of a grain is when I butter toast in the mornings,” he laughs.

The Head Gamemaker chuckles with him briefly, then breathes out a little sigh. Kurt is infinitely relieved that his position in the Games doesn’t come with the same amount of stress. How Seneca could do this for three consecutive years, he’ll never understand.

“You’re right; it isn’t typical,” comes the eventual reply. “To be quite honest, I’m not sure it’s legal within the rules, either, but I’ll look into the official Games procedures and see what we can arrange for you, Mr. Hummel. If you don’t hear back before the end of the week, please contact me again. It’s rare for things to slip through my fingers, but it does happen once in a while.”

“I’ll do that. Thank you.”

Before the week is out, however, Kurt’s trip to District 9 has been planned, arranged, and approved by the appropriate Capitol officials. Apparently there is no rule banning Stylists from visiting their Districts before the Reapings take place; it’s simply something that no one has ever asked about before. Kurt isn’t surprised, though. Most Capitol citizens are perfectly content to keep their experience of the Districts limited to the televised broadcasts of tribute selections that happen once a year.

Kurt doesn’t mind getting a little dirty in the name of success. He’ll travel by train, spend six days there in the week leading up to the Reaping before returning to the Capitol on the same train as the tributes, District mentor, and escort. During that time he’ll have plenty of opportunities for inspiration to strike.

In the two weeks leading up to his departure date, Kurt tries to consider some potential base designs for his tribute’s look. It proves to be a more difficult task than he first anticipated. Without the measurements of the boy he’ll be assigned to clothe, there is little he can do that isn’t merely hypothetical sketching. He’s been assured that Stylists’ designs can be made into reality in less than 24 hours during the course of the pre-Games festivities—told not to worry about the short time inevitably provided to him between the Reaping, the reveal of his tribute, and the first event where Kurt must provide him with a stunning outfit—but it’s still nerve-wracking. Kurt’s accustomed to taking things slow. The rush of the Games is not the way he prefers to operate.

Bogged down by pressure and unfamiliar stress, the first week he accomplishes very little. He has a perpetual creative block for three solid days. Then he procrastinates an entire afternoon and evening away sitting at the television, watching the three-dimensional holographic display of the latest hit show even though he’s an entire season behind and has no idea who the characters are. Then on the final days of the week Kurt finally has a minor breakthrough and manages to jot down a series of basic sketches that are adaptable to varying body proportions, mostly the proportion of height. It’s not hard to guess that most potential tributes from a poorer, food-producing District will all have the same thin bodies for him to work with.

On the first day of the following week, Kurt’s doorbell rings. He assumes it’s a friend or two or three, congregating on his doorstep to make sure that he hasn’t died after failing to show up for any social events in the last seven days. He opens the door with an apology on his lips, ready to reassure them.

Instead, he is greeted by a woman with a striking, red-dyed pixie cut that makes Kurt’s blue highlights appear almost modest in comparison. There is a literal crown of black and brown feathers around her head and a male Avox standing just behind her, his eyes trained on the door mat.

“Mr. Hummel,” she greets him, “I’m Minerva Byrd, one of the Gamemakers this year. May I come in?”

“Oh, of course.” Kurt is a little confused by her presence. Has his excursion been canceled? Has he been replaced by another stylist? Wouldn’t the Head Gamemaker himself let him know if anything important had been changed?

He steps back to let her in as she trills, “I’ll just be a moment,” leaving the door wide open when she passes over the threshold and hovers just inside. Her arms are lifted away from her sides as if she’s considering the possibility of taking flight. Even her face looks avian, obvious work done to sharpen the angles of the bones beneath her skin. Kurt feels awkward under her hawk-eyed gaze.

“What can I do for you?” he asks to alleviate the silence.

“I’m just here to pass on information. An Avox has been assigned to your personal service to accompany you to District 9, to ensure you receive all the comforts of home while you’re there,” she says with a businesslike smile. “Seneca thought it would be more useful to you to send him in advance, so you can both get accustomed to one another before your trip. If that’s alright with you, of course?”

Kurt nods, surprised. “That, um- That sounds fine.”

It will be a bit of a change, having someone else living with him in his home, but it’s not like taking on a guest who’s accustomed to being pampered. As long as the small second bedroom is habitable, there should be no further requirements. And the benefits of a 24/7 in-home servant cannot be denied.

“I hope he’ll be to your liking,” says the woman. “He was recently in training for service in President Snow’s mansion before the slot was filled, so he should be quite adept and capable of fulfilling your daily requirements.”

On cue, at the end of the description, the Avox in question steps fully into the room, nodding his head in acknowledgment towards Kurt without ever lifting his eyes to see his face. Kurt is certain that he couldn’t have seen this man before; Avoxes are rarely noticed in the hustle of Capitol life. Yet a spark of familiarity immediately burrows into his brain at the sight of him. He does his best to shrug it off, saying, “I’m sure he’ll do splendidly. Thank you so much.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Hummel. Do let us know if there’s anything else we can do for you!” Minerva flutters out the front door with a skip in her step, closing it behind her and leaving Kurt alone with the silent stranger.

Kurt stares at the Avox for a long moment, puzzling over his face and trying to figure out what made it seem as though they’ve crossed paths before. The man is small. Not stunted nor starved—simply compact. Under the Avox uniform, Kurt imagines he carries a lithe frame, muscles defined from years of constant labor. His hair is a closely-trimmed patch of dark curls, set over the tan skin of his face, oddly triangular brows and the dark hazel of his eyes, directed firmly at the floor and unreadable.

His hands are folded behind his back with, aside from his inclined neck, an otherwise straight posture. The Avox is a complete picture of well-trained servitude, with a handsome aesthetic to boot. It’s no wonder he’d been considered for a place in the President’s mansion.

“Well,” Kurt says to him, “let me show you around.” The Avox nods once and quickly falls in line.

Kurt shows him the kitchen, the den, the bathroom, and leads him into the small guest bedroom where Kurt throws a pile of notebooks filled with discarded sketches down off the bed so the space is actually usable.

“The television is right here,” he says, pointing to the wall where an older version of the massive screen in the den is sitting on the dresser. Kurt wades through a few heaps of old clothes and scrounges for the remote for a few minutes before he finally finds it in a messy drawer and sets it down on the nightstand by the bed. The Avox watches with an expressionless face, standing in a small space near the closet where the floor actually appears to be made of hardwood instead of an abandoned mess.

“Um. Feel free to use the kitchen if you get hungry. I shower every morning when I wake up, but any other time of day you have permission to wash up if you need to… Anything else I’m forgetting?”

It’s more awkward than he’d anticipated, being left alone and in charge of another person who has no ability or permission to speak for himself. The Avox looks at him, making eye contact for the first time. He motions to Kurt with one hand, eyebrows raising inquisitively.

“Oh—no, I don’t need anything at the moment,” he stammers, hoping he interpreted correctly. The Avox nods and looks away once more. Kurt does, too. “I’ll let you know if I require your help.”

Kurt leaves him there, shutting the door on his way out. He doesn’t know if Avoxes ever get much privacy—even now he knows the man’s location is being monitored by the tracker in his arm, the same technology used in the Hunger Games arenas—but Kurt hopes he understands the closed door is an offering and not a hard boundary.

As the rest of the day passes, however, Kurt begins to worry that he might not have been clear enough about the Avox’s freedom to move about the house. He hasn’t heard a peep from the guest bedroom since he left that morning. The television remains silent, and the door never creaks to signal Kurt’s guest making any movement toward the bathroom or anywhere else.

While Kurt prepares himself an evening meal he decides on a whim to double the amount of food. He waits to take the extra plate across the house until after he’s finished his own meal, but within ten minutes he’s knocking at the door of the guest bedroom and letting himself in.

“I brought you some supper.”

The Avox gets up from where he’s been sitting on the bed, doing what, Kurt can’t tell. Staring at the wall? He takes the plate with visible caution, almost as if he’s expecting to be rebuked. It’s nothing special: half a chicken breast rubbed with thyme and garlic, a pile of brown rice, and vegetables from a can. But behind the composed face Kurt can see that he’s surprised to receive it.

Kurt’s a little stunned, too. After being left in lazy disarray for months, the sight of the guest bedroom looking orderly is enough to make Kurt’s eyes go wide. He can actually see the floor rather than a mountain range of clutter.

“You cleaned it,” he observes.

The Avox nods, moving past Kurt to the dresser and balancing the plate in one hand while he pulls open the drawers one by one. Piles of paper and old sketches are stacked neatly on one side instead of haphazardly spread out. The clothing that had been scattered has now been sorted and folded by coordinating colors. Everything else has its own place, too, according to the Avox’s well-developed organizational skills.

Though Kurt is impressed and glad to see the room in shape, there are no words of thanks offered. It’s not standard protocol for interactions with the Capitol’s main laborers to go anywhere beyond the give and take of commands being followed. Kurt simply watches him standing there, silent and still by the open dresser drawers. The fork is resting on the plate, and the food is getting colder by the second, but the Avox doesn't touch it.

“Make sure you eat that,” he says, his tone almost suspicious. “I really hope I didn’t waste my time making another plate of food for you to just ignore it.”

He receives a series of hasty nods in response, an obvious show of obedience, but the Avox still doesn’t move to take the fork. His blank eyes dart from the meal in hand to the door across the room. It takes Kurt a moment to realize he’s waiting for Kurt to leave. Apparently Avoxes _do_ like some privacy, then.

Rolling his eyes a bit, Kurt makes his exit, pausing on his way out to ask, “Do you cook?” Nod. “If you’d like something to do, you can make my meals the next few days.” Another nod. Kurt takes it as agreement, nods himself, and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

The next morning when Kurt steps out of the shower, dries off enough to slip into his clothes, and cracks the bathroom door open to clear the air of steam, the unmistakable smell of pork sausage and eggs wafts its way to him over the scent of his shower gel.

He’s presented with a fully-set place for one in the small nook of a dining room where Kurt has crammed a table large enough for six. A little surprised by the extravagance, he sits down in the seat that has been pulled out for him.

The Avox must have been listening for the wooden scrape of the chair across the floor, because as soon as Kurt slides closer to the table, the Avox is stepping out of the adjacent kitchen, a glass of orange juice in one hand and a platter of eggs (made three different ways), sausage links, and hash browned potatoes balanced precariously in the other.

The food is delicious. Kurt eats as much as he can pack away into his stomach, ignoring the calories, cholesterol, and carbs. Even so, he only manages to finish about half of what the Avox prepared. It’s cleared away and returned to the kitchen after he’s finished. Kurt doesn’t stick around to monitor. If he was previously training for service in the president’s mansion, there’s no doubt that this man can handle taking care of leftovers and washing dishes on his own. Kurt heads off to the desk in his home office instead, turning back to the preliminary designs he’s been sketching over the last few days.

He meets his prep team for the Games that afternoon. The three fashion-forward strangers come calling just in time for Kurt to tell the Avox that he’ll be needing to triple the amount of food being prepared for lunch. Thankfully Kurt has more than enough in the pantry to go around, and the young stylist is free to converse with his guests during the afternoon instead of running around to play host. The silent Avox does all the work, and he does it perfectly. At the conclusion of the meal, he hovers like a statue in the corner of the room for four hours while the stylist and his team discuss their plan of action, moving only to refill drinking glasses when they run dry.

Three wonderful culinary experiences continue to await Kurt each day. Along with the obvious work being done in the kitchen, he begins to notice the Avox’s influence on the rest of his home. He moves like a specter, hardly ever seen or heard, but the evidence of his presence is obvious in the dusted surfaces, clean linens on Kurt’s bed every night, and the barely-there scent of cleaning product in the bathroom and kitchen. It’s a luxurious way to live, even by Kurt’s already-high Capitol standards, but by the end of the week he’s already begun to take the Avox for granted. He’s also begun to dread the return from his District excursion, knowing he’ll have to let the Avox go back to doing the Capitol’s work while Kurt starts slaving over his own food once again.

“Our train leaves early tomorrow afternoon,” Kurt tells the Avox the night before their scheduled departure. “Get some sleep tonight. A quick breakfast will be adequate—just toast and jam. I’ll need most of the morning to pack, anyway.”

Kurt receives a familiar nod, and he heads off to his bedroom. It’s earlier than he usually turns in. With all the anticipation of travel in his mind, however, Kurt knows he’ll need all the extra time in bed that he can get, hopefully allowing him adequate time to rest between all of his excitement and trepidation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is greatly appreciated! Chapter 3 will be posted on Thursday, March 12.


	3. Chapter 3

When the train pulls out of the Capitol station, it accelerates so smoothly Kurt can hardly tell they’re moving except for the sight of familiar buildings passing by outside the large windows of the luxury sitting room car. The plush cushion and mahogany wood of Kurt's chair provides the perfect comfort for him to glance out as the city begins to dart past. The Avox has finished stowing away all of Kurt’s luggage, filled with everything the stylist needs for the week ahead, as well as his own three extra uniforms, and has since gone off to the kitchen in the back of the train where the rest of the servant’s quarters—a small bedroom and bathroom of his own—are located.

The two of them are alone on this excursion, so the train is rather small. Only four train cars follow the engine at the front, which is unmanned, navigated and controlled by Capitol computers. Kurt’s bedroom and bathroom are directly behind it, followed by the large combination sitting room and dining car, the kitchen, and the caboose with the bare minimum amenities for the Avox’s use. Even with the lighter weight of fewer cars and the train’s top speeds on the rails, they won’t arrive at District 9 until tomorrow morning.

The Avox steps in through the kitchen, footsteps silent on soft carpet as he carefully moves from one train car to another with a mug of coffee held tight in his grip. He hands it to Kurt just as the train passes into the massive tunnel that separates the Capitol boundary from the rest of Panem beyond. The Avox stares at the windows for a long moment before walking nearer to the glass, peering out at the smooth, rounded wall cut through the mountain. Kurt sips at his coffee and observes him in the dim light of the bulbs overhead.

They pass through the tunnel, and within ten minutes the scenery surrounding the train has changed from the Capitol’s urban world to a maze of wilderness. The Avox’s face appears more human now than Kurt’s ever seen it, wide eyes scanning over everything he can see, near and far. It’s the first time he’s been out of the Capitol in years, Kurt assumes. He's so busy staring at the Avox's subtle reactions to a changing environment that he hardly spares a thought for the view beyond.

Kurt watches the Avox’s fingers curl and uncurl at his sides in agitation. His hands clench around the fabric on the sides of his uniform, wringing it until a few wrinkles are left behind. The distinct spark of familiarity that Kurt felt when he first viewed the Avox a week ago returns with a vengeance, only this time Kurt knows he’s seen this man before.

He sets down his coffee on the table to keep from dropping it. At the sound of porcelain coming to rest on wood, the Avox turns with an automatic jerk, ready to take an empty dish away if need be, and Kurt murmurs, “Oh my god. It’s you.”

The Avox freezes and shakes his head, denying any recognition. He looks almost afraid to be addressed without an order.

“It _is_ ,” insists Kurt. He feels like that same teenager again, fascinated by him and all the mystery surrounding his presence in the Capitol. “You were there at the Training Center all those years ago. When you were new. You served me juice one afternoon; do you remember? I was only fourteen. You had a-” Kurt taps his throat, miming the placement of the strange bandage he'd seen pressed onto the boy's skin. "Don't you remember?"

The Avox shakes his head again, adamant. He’s backing away toward the rear of the train car with his fists firmly wound into his shirt once more. Kurt can tell he wants to leave, but he doesn’t dare make an exit without a dismissal.

“You can go,” Kurt finally says to him, taking a little pity on the panicked expression on the Avox’s face. He can't help the disappointed sigh that escapes his lips. “I’ll send for you if I need anything. And if I don’t call, you know when mealtimes are.”

The Avox quickly nods and hurries on his way. Kurt can’t help but wonder what’s going through his mind. Surely he remembers their first meeting? Or has he blocked it from his memory? Kurt’s certain that it’s him. It has to be. He leans back in his chair and stares through the window, letting his thoughts wander.

This is the first time he’s ever left the security of the Capitol’s walls. Sure, he’s seen the Districts before on television; he knows what the country looks like beyond his urban landscape. But seeing trees and grass and open spaces projected on a screen and seeing them roll past him in an endless parade just yards away are such different experiences he can’t even begin to compare the two.

He’s found the Avox, though, which seems so much more monumental than the new sights of Panem. The young boy he never thought he would see again has been living in his home for the past week, serving him meals and cleaning his possessions. After disappearing from Kurt’s life he had progressed far enough in his low, low station that he had almost been considered excellent enough to serve President Snow himself. How had he gotten to that point?

Though Kurt wouldn’t quite call him “happy”, the Avox hasn’t seemed particularly miserable serving him the last few days. Did the years simply lead him to reach a state of true acceptance, or has he just been beaten down so far that he now fears the slightest act of disobedience? How did the crying boy turn into this stoic man?

Kurt has so many questions, and he isn’t allowed to know the answer to a single one of them. Maybe it would be better if he tries to forget, to just go back to thinking that the Avox is nothing more than one of countless servants. Because he is, in more ways than he’s not. Still, Kurt feels like he’s discovered the treasure chest in a game of make believe. That Avox has been in the back of his mind for eight years.

At least for today in the privacy of this train, Kurt decides he can allow himself to bask in the novelty of such an incredible coincidence.

For a few hours nothing is heard but the rattling of the train over the tracks. Kurt tries to work on his sketches, though it proves difficult with his preoccupied mind, and he resorts to turning on the television mounted on the wall to help pass the time. There's a show on, counting down the top 20 moments of the past 73 Hunger Games, as voted on by Capitol viewers. Kurt watches the clips with a distinct nostalgia stirring in his brain. The scenes are graphic, but Kurt doesn't flinch at the sight of a girl's skin burning from a downpour of acidic rain. Instead he recalls the excited discussions the moment had prompted the following morning at school all those years ago. The tribute had been parched for two days before the storm, unable to find a water source. The irony of her death was not lost on the children in Kurt's class. It was something memorable and wrenching, in the superficial Capitol way, at least.

Each gruesome death holds a set of memories for Kurt. The boy accidentally hanged in his own makeshift hammock in the treetops is background noise to Kurt finishing his first complete design with his own sewing machine. The two tributes skewered by a single spear hurtled from the mouth of the Cornucopia is Kurt's second date with a boy who brings him flowers and makes a blush crawl across his cheeks. Even the moments from Games he was not alive to see are often familiar to him, part of a collective Capitol knowledge of their most celebrated part of the year. Perhaps if his tribute does something remarkable in the arena, he'll be featured on these countdowns one day.

Maybe Kurt will get to lean back in his chair and smile, saying, "That was the tribute I worked on when I was a Stylist."

The drawings on the table aren't just throwaway sketches. They'll be archived. They'll be remembered. In his world where everyone competes simply to stand out from the crowd, Kurt feels like a significant part of history. He isn't just watching the Games this year. He is a part of them.

The Avox stays in the back of the train until noon when the sound of pots and pans clattering in the kitchen joins the noise of travel. He prepares Kurt a marinara pasta dish, complete with garlic bread and the perfect complementary wine.

The Avox carries in the serving tray with extra caution, keeping his eyes down on the food he’s balancing in his hands. Kurt suspects he’s also trying to avoid Kurt’s gaze.

He sets everything down on the table and reaches toward Kurt’s sketches spread out in front of him, pausing for permission to remove them first.

“Your hands are clean, yes?”

The Avox grabs the small dish towel draped over his shoulder and quickly rubs his hands against it, holding his palms out for inspection.

“Good. Those can go back to my room, then,” Kurt tells him, “on the desk by the window.”

The Avox nods, scoops them up gently and sets them aside for a moment while he uses the towel to lift the hot plate from the tray and slide it in front of Kurt. He sets out silverware and a napkin and uncorks the bottle of wine to pour out a tall glass.

“I’ll take some water with this, too.”

Everything is completed according to Kurt’s wishes within a few minutes. His sketches are safely stowed away, and a cup of water joins the glass of wine on the table. The Avox lingers at the edge of the dining car when his orders are complete, hands behind his back and waiting for any further instructions. Kurt notices him glancing out the window every now and again. The same agitated fidgeting from earlier that morning returns as he watches the world go by.

He takes the empty plate when Kurt is finished, nods when he’s dismissed, and retreats once again to his quarters. Kurt takes his time walking to his bedroom car and gets back to work on his sketches, determined to be at least a little productive today. Over the course of the next few hours of free time, he hashes out the details on a few of his base designs, playing around with ornamentation and imagining the way various fabric textures or metallic paints might enhance the overall expression.

Kurt is eager to get to their destination. While he’s confident that the designs he’s already created will provide the perfect foundation for the final look seen in the Tribute Parade, he can’t help but long for an ounce of authenticity. He wants to see the landscape for himself. He wants his tribute to look as though he rose from the soil of District 9 like a phoenix. If anyone can make grain look glamorous, Kurt is determined to be the man for the job.

The table is set for supper that evening before the Avox knocks on his door to alert him. The dining car is absurdly large for a single person to eat alone in, with spaces at the table enough for eight people, three on the sides and one at each end. The Avox has filled much of the available space with full dishes of each component of the meal, ready and available for Kurt to fill and refill his plate to his liking. Once Kurt is seated and has served himself without complaint or further requirements, the Avox makes a slight bow and starts for the exit.

“Wait,” calls Kurt.

He freezes and turns around, a question in his eyes.

“Sit down. Eat with me.”

Kurt knows it’s a ridiculous request, and probably an unacceptable one, but there’s no one else here to judge him. His father isn’t here to scold him for his words. Still, the Avox is made visibly uncomfortable by them. Kurt can’t help but feel a little annoyed. From the way the Avox shifts his weight from one foot to another, like he’s trying to keep himself from running away, one would think Kurt had ordered him to sing an aria, not just to put himself in a chair. He tries his best to calm the servant down, speaking again.

“Eating alone is just such a drag,” he says. “As you can probably imagine, I’m much more accustomed to having company and conversation at my meals. Eating and socializing go hand in hand in the Capitol.”

Kurt is certain the Avox knows this. He’s probably presided over hundreds of Capitol meals in his time, silently slipping in to refill serving dishes and beverages while his superiors chat away and ignore his presence except to bark an order or two.

“Not that you’ll be the best at conversation, but-” Kurt’s voice trails off, open-ended, and he chuckles at his own joke.

The Avox is motionless, face unmoved.

“Come on. Sit,” he demands. “The food’s getting cold. This will be nicer than having you take leftovers back to your room later.”

There’s another long moment of hesitation. Kurt can see the Avox’s neck muscles tense up as he holds back a shake of his head. He wants to say no. But he can’t. No isn’t in his vocabulary, verbal or not. He shuffles over and pulls out the chair on the side of the table that’s farthest from Kurt’s seat at the head. He’s the epitome of reluctance. Awkwardly, the Avox grabs a spare plate, originally left for Kurt if he had chosen to portion different dishes separately.

While Kurt reaches for servings of food with a lazy sort of confidence, the Avox wraps his fingers around serving utensils as if he were grabbing the burning end of a torch. Every time he accidentally clinks a serving spoon against a dish, he winces, still trying his best to be unheard as he piles on mashed potatoes, gravy, and the loosest strands of the roast beef that has been cooking all day. He avoids the thick rolls with toasted crusts and the pan of crispy, baked asparagus.

Kurt digs in, making a compliment after the first few bites, “You really are fantastic in the kitchen.”

The Avox makes no response, not even a nod of acknowledgment, and Kurt frowns in automatic disapproval. He opens his mouth to express his displeasure at the lack of gratitude when the Avox brings the fork up to his lips for the first time, causing Kurt to fall silent.

Intimidation. It’s the only way Kurt can describe the look on the man’s face. The fork only holds the tiniest amount of meat, but his eyes are focused hard on the utensil as if in heavy concentration. His shoulders rise and fall with a single deep breath, and he takes the bite into his mouth. Kurt watches without being noticed.

It’s a very slow process. The Avox’s head tips to the side. His jaw moves methodically as he chews at the odd, leaning angle. A few seconds later he tips his head to the opposite side, gives it a little shake to shift the food, and begins to chew again. Kurt’s heart drops. A numb chill of realization falls over him. He’s been around Avoxes all his life, yet he has never taken the few seconds to understand how the mutilation of their tongues affected them in any way aside from losing speech.

No wonder he had been so resistant to eating in Kurt’s presence that first day when he’d brought supper into the guest bedroom back home.

The Avox chews for a few seconds more before he tilts his head back with deliberate patience. His eyes are closed now, definite concentration on his face, and Kurt hardly breathes as he watches the silent man’s throat flutter with a series of quick swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing again and again to get down the meager bite of food without choking. The Avox’s movements make a quiet gulping sound, desperate in a way that Kurt has never associated with the joy of eating. He finds himself swallowing in sympathy and staring down at his plate when he can’t stand to look anymore.

Suddenly his meal looks a lot less enticing than it had only a minute before. A bout of nausea threatens to overtake Kurt’s hunger, and for a fleeting moment Kurt considers ordering the Avox away to save what preciously small part of his appetite remains. _You’re dismissed._ That’s all it would take. The words refuse to leave the tip of his tongue.

He doesn't know why he cares. The man is an Avox. Kurt would never be stupid enough to believe that they aren’t still capable of human emotions, but in the grand scheme of things, his feelings are rather meaningless. He will never be anything more than a silent servant, working to serve his country’s most elite citizens until he’s too old and weak to keep a steady hand with a tray of food and drink. His emotions have no consequences; they serve no purpose, nor do they affect his prescribed actions. Why Kurt cares at all that ordering the Avox away might leave him offended makes absolutely no sense.

But knowing his reluctance to offend the Avox is preposterous doesn’t change the fact that Kurt refuses to give the order.

Instead he focuses on his own food, forcing himself to spear a stalk of asparagus and bring it up to his mouth. He’s overly aware of the ease with which he chews and swallows each bite, and even though he takes his time and paces himself, Kurt’s first plate, piled high with food when he began eating, is emptied before the Avox has even neared the halfway mark with his much more modest portions.

Kurt takes seconds of a few dishes. He sips at his drink with an intentional, luxurious drag, biding his time. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Avox continuing the rhythmic tipping of his head, side to side, lean back, swallow. His quiet gulping is an infrequent accompaniment to the rattle of the train.

The completion of the meal is inevitable. Even a Capitol stomach, accustomed to gorging merely for pleasure, has its limits. Kurt sets down his knife and fork as quietly as he can. Though the Avox has seemed entirely preoccupied with his plate for the last half hour, it takes only twenty seconds before he notices that Kurt’s silverware has stopped clanking. He’s on his feet in an instant, rounding the table to Kurt’s side and holding out a hand toward his empty dish.

The Avox waits for permission as he always does. He refuses to meet Kurt’s eyes.

“Go ahead,” Kurt says softly. The Avox nods, and Kurt sees him visibly relax as he falls back into his default mode, taking several trips back and forth to the kitchen to clear the table bit by bit. Finally all that remains is his own forlorn plate, still covered in a mountain of mashed potatoes. It’s been out so long that the gravy has cooled into a congealed pool.

The Avox lingers near Kurt, hands behind his back, waiting and attentive. Kurt doesn’t know what to say. Part of him wants to apologize for forcing him to sit down for supper. Kurt pushes the urge away immediately, reminding himself that the man standing before him is here for a reason. He defied the Capitol somehow—defied President Snow and put the stability of Panem at risk. Avoxes are taken to the Capitol to purge themselves of treasonous urges and to act as a warning to others who might dare to follow in their footsteps.

Perhaps having him sit down for a meal was unwise—Kurt should have known better than to go against protocol—but the Avox doesn’t deserve an apology. Kurt steels himself and gives a single wave of his hand, saying, “You’re dismissed for the night. We’ll be arriving at District 9 tomorrow morning, so I’d like a hearty breakfast beforehand to make sure I’ve got plenty of energy for a busy day.”

The Avox nods, bows slightly, and grabs his plate from the table as he goes. Kurt rises when he’s gone and heads to his own quarters to wash up, dress down, and climb into bed with a yawn. He drifts off to the gentle rocking of the train, distantly wondering how long the Avox will remain awake finishing his meal.


	4. Chapter 4

The train stops just outside of District 9 a few hours after sunrise. Kurt and the Avox are transferred into a covered vehicle at the station a few miles away from the District border. The vehicle rumbles along on a single path, surrounded on either side by overgrown, unattended fields of grain so tall Kurt can’t see anything from his window except an endless line of thin stalks swaying in the wind. The morning glow turns everything golden. It would almost look peaceful and idyllic if not for the approaching sight of an intimidating security gate with a barred entrance. The surrounding fence wrapped in razor wire stretches out to the horizon on either side of the gate, enclosing an entire world within its confines.

Since their arrival is expected, the vehicle is stalled at the District entrance only for a moment, guards checking Kurt’s Capitol identification before they’re allowed to pass. After driving down a dirt road for fifteen more minutes, the vehicle emerges into civilization, and Kurt gets his first glimpse of the District dwellers who reap and sow Panem’s grain supply moving through the streets. Beside Kurt, the Avox’s hands are folded on his lap, fingers twined together so tightly that his knuckles are ghostly white. Kurt doesn’t have time to puzzle over it. They’re already pulling up to the Justice Building in the square, a place Kurt recognizes from viewing countless televised Reapings over the years.

With the help of the Avox, Kurt’s luggage is moved into the Justice Building and taken to a spare room where he will be housed during the week. The Avox has his own room as well, just across the hall. Kurt leaves the servant behind to unpack while he heads off to meet with the mayor.

He’s taken to an office on the second floor. The room has the look of a window display in a storefront. With the polished wooden desk clear of all clutter but a few papers with information relevant to Kurt’s stay, it doesn’t look like any official work has been done here in years. The mayor stands from his chair to greet Kurt, a mouse-eyed man with tan skin and thin glasses perched on his nose. Kurt reaches out and shakes his hand over the desk on obligation, putting on a smile.

“Good morning. We’re delighted to have you here, Mr. Hummel,” the mayor says, sounding equally inclined to act on obligation alone. Kurt notices the way his gaze trails up over the ensemble of eccentric clothing to the blue streaks in Kurt’s hair. His brows furrow, judgmental, and Kurt’s jaw tightens.

“You should be,” affirms Kurt with a bit of ice. “The more memorable your Tributes’ styles, the better the chances of your District’s success in the Games.” He’s from the Capitol; he won’t have someone from an overgrown field pass judgment on him based on his appearance.

The mayor blinks in surprise, his hands raising up a few inches as if to make a defensive pose. “Of course, Mr. Hummel. As I said, we’re glad to have you.” He grabs the few papers on the desk and holds them out for Kurt to take. “I took the liberty of putting together an itinerary for your time here. You’ll have a Peacekeeper escort whenever you’re outside of the Justice Building. As the Reaping draws closer, everyone is understandably tense, and we must ensure your safety.”

Kurt nods. “Thank you. I appreciate your vigilance and concern.”

He glances down to scan the list of events for himself. Today is a tour of the District, an opportunity to take photos, make notes, and explore the home of the tribute he’ll be designing for. Tomorrow he’ll monitor the work of the populations in the field, to get a feel for the labor that is the backbone of the District’s livelihood. The following few days are more open for Kurt to create his own schedule, until the end of the week arrives, bringing the Reaping with it. After the tributes have been drawn, Kurt and the Avox will return to the Capitol on the same train along with the District mentors and escort. It looks to be a busy week, and Kurt is ready to get started.

“What time will my tour of the District begin this morning?” he asks.

“As soon as you’re ready to set out, I imagine.”

“Excellent. I’m ready now.”

The mayor seems a little taken aback by Kurt's eager response, but he nods. “Right, well—I’ll have your escort meet you downstairs by the doors.”

“Thank you, Mayor, for your hospitality as well.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Hummel. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

Kurt spares him one final, quick smile and ducks out of the artificial office. He wanders back down the stairs to his room at the rear of the Justice Building, pushing open the door to see the Avox busy at work transferring Kurt’s clothes to the wardrobe.

“My tour is about to begin,” Kurt tells him while he grabs an empty bag and fills it up with pencils, sketchpads, and a few of the useful papers from the mayor, including a map and a schedule of the District’s daily activities from sunrise to curfew. “Have you come across my camera yet?”

The Avox nods and kneels down to pull open the bottom drawer of the dresser. He retrieves the camera, and Kurt takes it from him with a smile, saying, “Come on. You’re coming, too.”

A pair of wide eyes looks up at him. Really?

“Come on,” Kurt says again. “Get your shoes on; let’s go. You’re carrying this for me.”

The Avox scrambles to do as he’s told, slipping on his footwear as he stands up. He takes the bag from Kurt and hangs the strap over his shoulder, gripping it with both hands to follow Kurt out the door and down the path of hallways that ends at the Justice Building entrance. A Peacekeeper is waiting for them there, face hidden behind his helmet. There’s a large firearm draped across his back with a shoulder strap. The Avox hangs back a few steps, seeming wary.

“Is he coming with us?” inquires the Peacekeeper. While Kurt reasons that the man’s voice should be muffled by the material encasing his head, his words are projected clearly.

“He is,” Kurt affirms. “He was sent with me to ensure that I’m provided with all the comforts of home while I’m away. I intend to keep those comforts as close as possible during my stay.”

The Peacekeeper nods and pulls out a handheld device attached to his belt. “Very well.” Moving toward the Avox, he holds out his other hand, saying, “Your tracker arm.”

The Avox obeys the prompt immediately, shoving out his right forearm and allowing the Peacekeeper’s glove to grip his wrist tight. He presses the device to the Avox’s skin, just below the crook of his elbow. A low-frequency buzz is emitted while the device scans, picks up the Avox’s signal, and beeps out a confirmation. Kurt peers over the Peackeeper’s shoulder to glance at the display screen showing a blueprint layout of the District and various dots laid out like radar points. An identification number flickers by the dot representing the Avox.

“Is that necessary?” Kurt wonders aloud. Even in the strange environment of a District, Kurt can’t imagine him getting lost. He’s far too attentive for that.

“Just a precaution,” the Peacekeeper answers vaguely, returning the device to his belt. “Alright, Mr. Hummel. We’re ready to move out. Right this way.”

The Peacekeeper takes them through the doors and down the steps of the Justice Building. Another District vehicle is waiting for them, this one smaller and open to the air. Kurt climbs up into the back and takes a seat. The Avox sits beside him, and their escort gets into the passenger seat in front, next to a second Peacekeeper behind the wheel. Their firearms rest across their laps in the enclosed space, and the barrel of one gun points toward the back seat, making the Avox squirm a little as he slides to get out of its aim.

Their drive takes them around the square first. There’s a wide expanse of empty space from one side to the other, adequate room for the population to stand here during Reaping days, gathered at the foot of their Justice Building while the tributes are selected. In the center is another spectacle built for others to bear witness to.

The trio of wooden poles sticking out of the ground, six feet apart, are a darker shade than that of the other lumber-constructed buildings and platforms around the perimeter of the square.

“A different kind of wood?” Kurt asks.

“No,” the Peacekeeper tells him. “It’s all oak.”

He looks closer as they drive past. The stain on the wood is imprecise and messy, trailing down from a frayed length of rope wrapped around the top of each pole. It’s too uneven to be a purposeful accent.

“Wait,” he says, touching the driver’s shoulder to get his attention. “Wait.”

The vehicle slows to a halt, and Kurt brings up his camera to peer through the viewfinder. He snaps a photo then zooms in for a closer look, intrigued by the texture of the stain pattern. Maybe it’s an element he can incorporate into the coloration of the tribute’s outfit. Something pink-white moves into frame as Kurt scans to the pole in the center. He squints, then swallows down the urge to gag.

There’s a fingernail embedded in the wood, torn at the nailbed. Kurt’s fingers feel a phantom pain in response, and he feels his legs go numb when he realizes that the color on the wood isn’t artificial at all. It isn’t decorative. It’s blood. These posts are for public punishments.

“Why three?” Kurt’s voice is a little breathless. He’s seen plenty of violence on television, but seeing the aftermath of what can only be dozens, if not hundreds, of bleeding people clawing at these poles in desperate agony, right before his very eyes, is a different, startling experience.

The answer he receives from the Peacekeeper in the passenger’s seat is simple, offhand. “Lashings seem to be more effective at discouraging misbehavior when they’re performed in higher numbers. Shall we continue on, Mr. Hummel?”

“Yes,” says Kurt.

They drive to the District market next, just a few minutes away. When Kurt hears the word “market”, he pictures the long stretches of succulent fruits and vegetables sitting outside storefronts in the Capitol, enticing buyers with free samples of all of the excess produce that even the massive city, with its seemingly endless appetite, can’t consume.

The marketplace here couldn’t be any farther from his vision even if Kurt tried to imagine it himself. It’s a series of wooden stalls and shacks covered in tarps, with tables that lean under the meager weight of their goods. In a dirty, small corral off to the side, three emaciated goats are standing in their own feces. A bloodstained wooden block sticks out of the ground a few feet away, signaling the fate that awaits the miserable animals with meager amounts of meat on their bones.

It looks just as pathetic as Kurt supposes a poverty-stricken District market _should_ look.

The vehicle is parked off to the side, and Kurt, the Avox, and their Peacekeeper escort climb down to continue on foot. Kurt snaps photos as they walk.

“It’s not very busy,” he observes. Aside from the few dozen sellers themselves, Kurt and his entourage are virtually the only people around.

“Most of the District will be out in the fields or factories right now,” the Peacekeeper explains. “These are only the ones too old or too weak to work, or those who are temporarily exempt for other reasons. Things often get busier in the evenings.”

“And they grow all of this on their spare time?” asks Kurt, scooping up a small tomato from a stall and rolling it in his palm. It’s tiny and bruised, but Kurt intrinsically knows that produce like this is a luxury here.

The Peacekeeper steps closer, inspecting the seller’s goods. Kurt wonders what he’s looking for. “Certain citizens are allowed personal gardening space at their housing units, yes, in return for exemplary work. They can either supplement their own rations with what they grow or trade the products here, though some abuse this privilege by offering contraband or stolen grain from the District fields. We have to keep a close eye on everything.”

Kurt nods. “Understandable.”

The Avox stays a few steps behind as they make their way through the maze of rundown kiosks. His head is turned down to the ground, and his hands are still wrapped tight around the strap of the bag, holding it like a lifeline. He’s been visibly uncomfortable all morning. Kurt chalks it up to the unfamiliar environment. He’s just as much out of his element as Kurt is. His discomfort, however, is rather inconsequential. As long as he can carry the bag and keep up, that’s all Kurt requires of him.

“A notebook and pencil, please,” he requests a few minutes later. They’ve reached the end of the market and are about to turn back, but Kurt doesn’t want to miss the opportunity to jot down a few impressions while he’s here.

The Avox jerks when he’s addressed, like he’s being torn from a trance. Kurt has to repeat himself, tone impatient. The man nods and shucks the bag off of his shoulder, digging down into it to retrieve Kurt’s supplies.

“Blaine?”

This time when the Avox jumps in surprise, it’s a violent tremble that rocks his whole body. He turns his head toward the new voice, glancing at a young woman who’s stepped out from the small crowd of shoppers wandering the market path. The Avox shakes his head and steps back, putting distance between himself and the newcomer.

Kurt’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, and the weight of his stare seems to register with the woman who finally glances away from the Avox and notices him standing there, hand outstretched to receive his notebook from the bag. He sees the recognition register on her face as she takes in his attire, screaming of the Capitol, and just like the Avox, she backs away, too.

“Oh, I- I’m sorry,” she stammers, eyes darting from the Avox to Kurt, to the Peacekeeper who is now approaching with a hand on his gun, ready to respond if trouble should arise. “I thought you were someone else.”

She leaves immediately, turning a few corners and disappearing into the crowd. Kurt stares after her until something brushes his open palm. He looks down to see a notebook and pencil balanced on top. The paper is vibrating against his skin from the force of the Avox’s trembling hand.

Kurt catches his eye, confusion morphing to complete suspicion as he takes the notebook from him. Kurt doesn't understand what it is, but there’s something more going on here.

“Let’s move out,” the Peacekeeper says. It’s not a suggestion. Kurt does as instructed, following behind as the Peacekeeper leads them back out. The Avox is close on his heels.

They get back in the vehicle when they return to the edge of the market. For the next two hours, they’re taken through much of the rest of the District, pausing frequently for Kurt to write or snap photos. They pass by a team of field workers on their lunch break around noon, harvesting scythes piled up to the side and monitored by a Peacekeeper while they eat. Kurt studies them from the safety of his seat in the vehicle, unbothered by the way they stare and glare back at him, whispering to one another between bites of the loaf of bread they’re sharing.

After the workers return to the field, Kurt is returned to the Justice Building for his own lunch. It has already been prepared in advance by other District laborers, but the Avox takes over the duty of serving the meal. He looks calmer in the confinement of the walls around him, once again, as on the train the evening before, seeming to find relief in the monotony of servitude. Kurt dines on braised goat chops and barley risotto, an upscale version of typical District 9 fare.

They stay inside while the afternoon wanes, Kurt’s escort having told him that there wouldn’t be much else to see until later that day when the workers completed their jobs and began to return to their homes. Kurt spends the time inside looking through his photos, editing his design sketches, and relaxing until a knock at his door rouses him around 6 PM. It’s the Peacekeeper.

“A light supper has been prepared for you, Mr. Hummel,” he announces. “We’ll be heading back out as soon as you’re ready.”

Within half an hour, the District vehicle is rumbling down the dirt paths once more, sending up clouds of dust into the sky beginning to bleed with the first hints of a red sunset. Kurt’s delivered to the housing community and dropped off. Compared to the morning tour of the District where the streets were quite deserted, he’s surrounded by crowds now.

The trio sticks out in the legions of dusty, sweaty laborers. The Peacekeeper’s uniform, Avox’s subordinate posture, and Stylist’s wealthy appearance are like a beacon for attention. Kurt can hear the whispers of mistrust that follow them just as easily as he can feel the endless pairs of eyes boring into his back. _What’s he doing here? Who is that? Get inside and lock the door; someone from the Capitol is here._

He doesn’t let it bother him. He’s here on a mission to perfect his designs with authenticity that can only be retrieved from experience. If experiencing the District’s population means taking their distrust, Kurt will do it.

“Sketchpad, please,” he requests, holding out his palm out toward the Avox who has been walking behind him. There’s no response or shuffle of paper. _“Sketchpad,”_ he insists a second time, grumbling. “Honestly, you’re doing a pathetic job at paying attention today,” Kurt scolds, turning to face him. “I’m sure the Head Gamemaker would be interested to hear how disappointing you’ve-”

He’s gone.

Kurt scans the area in front of him, wondering if perhaps the Avox has simply been delayed in the thick of the busy crowd of people returning to their homes. But in the sea of dusty clothing, the white uniform is nowhere to be seen. He’s vanished.


	5. Chapter 5

“He’s gone,” Kurt says to no one. He turns on his heel and rushes to catch up to the Peacekeeper. “He’s gone. The Avox. He was right behind me just a moment ago.”

Kurt can’t see his face through the helmet, but the Peacekeeper seems to be unalarmed. He simply nods and reaches down to pull the thin device from his belt. He presses a few buttons. It beeps. The Peacekeeper nods again.

“I’ve got his signal,” he says. “This way.”

Kurt is glad now that the Peacekeeper had taken the precaution of scanning the Avox’s tracker that morning. While he never would have expected him to get lost or separated from them by accident, he had never even considered that the Avox might wander off intentionally.

It’s the only possible explanation for the rapid, winding path his green dot is currently making on the display screen Kurt catches glimpses of as he follows the Peacekeeper back the way they’d come. The Avox is moving quickly, which Kurt finds incredibly strange, appearing to navigate like he knows where he’s going. Either that or he’s trying to make a run for it—but why he’d be trying to escape by running deeper into the housing community of District 9, Kurt doesn’t know. Maybe he’s planning to dash into someone’s kitchen for a knife to cut the tracker out of his arm and continue fleeing.

Kurt and the Peacekeeper turn off the main thoroughfare and follow after him, passing through the wide alleyways between every small, one-story house. They’re all carbon copies of one another, no more than 600 square feet, Kurt would estimate. Children are pulled into their front doors by nervous parents as the Peacekeeper charges ahead with his gun gripped in one hand and a Capitol citizen on his heels.

For six minutes they’re led on through the complex in pursuit of the Avox. Kurt resists the urge to stop and snap photos as they go. These slums are incredibly interesting to look at from his own privileged perspective. The tribute he’ll be clothing is probably in one of these shacks right at this moment. Perhaps Kurt has already passed him by on the street.

“There,” the Peacekeeper finally announces, glancing back at his display screen once for confirmation before slipping it back into its holster and pointing ahead. “He’s there.”

“In the house?” Kurt asks in disbelief. “Why?”

Maybe he really _is_ planning to cut out the tracker.

“I don’t know. Stay a few feet back, please, Mr. Hummel. We don’t know what he could be doing.” The Peacekeeper speaks as though he suspects the Avox is capable of harming someone, of harming them.

Kurt shakes his head, saying, “No, wait. Let me see.”

He’s seen the Avox practically tremble at an order to sit down for a meal; this man isn’t capable of senseless violence. He can’t explain the sudden rush of curiosity that barrels into him. All Kurt can do is try to tread lightly as he approaches the side of the small house. There’s a window just out of his reach behind a rotting fence that protects a small garden.

“Mr. Hummel!” The Peacekeeper’s voice is no longer veiled in politeness. “I must order you to stand back!”

Kurt refuses to move. He doesn’t follow the orders of a glorified prison guard. The window in front of him is open, presumably to let in fresh air. Kurt can’t see anything beyond the windowsill, but he can hear a woman’s voice.

“You’re alive,” she’s saying. “You’re _alive_.”

The Peacekeeper gives up trying to corral the Capitol man. He runs ahead toward the door and turns the handle without success. “District Peacekeeper!” he shouts. “Open this door!”

Kurt hears the unmistakable sound of the wood being kicked in with full force. He bolts from the window, running back to join the uniformed officer who’s slamming his boot into the door with all of his weight. The lock gives way just as Kurt rounds the corner, in time to see the Peacekeeper charge into the house with his gun drawn and prepared to fire.

“Stand back!” he commands. Kurt follows after him and steps over the threshold into the kitchen of a rundown house. On the other side of the wooden table in the center of the room, beyond the Peacekeeper who stands in a clearly threatening pose, Kurt sees the Avox and the woman whose voice he must have heard at the window. The woman, backed up against the wall, stares at the Peacekeeper in terror. The Avox, a few feet away, only has eyes for her.

She’s too old to be his lover. That means she can only be family. And now that he stares at her, too, Kurt can see the resemblance between the Avox and his mother.

“You’re from District 9,” Kurt breathes.

His astute observation is overshadowed by another bellow from the Peacekeeper as the Avox twitches where he stands: “Stay back! Do you hear me?” His weapon is aimed between the two of them, moving from one target to another as if prepared to take them both out at any moment if they fail to comply.

He aims his gun toward the mother. “Do you know where interfering with an Avox can put you? Are you asking for the whipping post, or do you want your tongue out, too?”

The Avox shouts. He forces out his own approximation of the word “NO!”, completely lacking the consonant that gives the word its power. It’s a twisted, sharp exclamation that cracks in a few places as his weak vocal cords struggle to keep up with the volume, but it’s a clear protest if Kurt’s ever heard one. For the first time he has a clear view of the Avox’s mutilation, of his gaping mouth where a tongue should fill empty space. Kurt’s stomach tips dangerously. The woman is crying across the room.

Suddenly the Avox is looking to him. His eyes are panicked, thick brows slanted in distress. He’s pleading with Kurt, silently, to _do something_. Kurt feels his adrenaline spike in response.

“Stop,” he calls to the Peacekeeper. He’s speaking without a plan. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say. “Stop. Please, I—I brought the Avox with us. I had no idea this was his home District. I doubt the Capitol was aware, either, or else he would not have been placed in this situation, under such an obvious temptation.”

The Peacekeeper doesn’t move, still aiming his firearm between the mother and her son.

“It’s likely he came looking for this house on his own,” Kurt insists. “His disobedience is not the fault of this woman. Don’t punish her on his behalf; she’s done nothing wrong.”

The Avox nods in rapid agreement. He steps forward toward the Peacekeeper to take responsibility, hands fallen at his sides in clear submission, his head down. Kurt doesn’t miss the way he positions himself between his mother and the barrel of the Peacekeeper’s weapon.

Another moment of tension passes, and finally the Peacekeeper relents. He takes a few steps forward, orders, “Turn around,” and bludgeons the butt of his gun into the Avox’s back as soon as he’s within striking distance.

His mother screams. Kurt winces at the dull crack of the weapon landing hard on a bone. The force of the blow causes the Avox to crumble to the floor, and the resulting pain is enough to keep him there on his hands and knees. He coughs and wheezes so severely that Kurt’s afraid he’ll choke.

Through the doorway, another man stumbles in, breathing hard. His handsome face is unnaturally thin, hands covered in scabbing blisters, no doubt from wielding harvesting tools.

"Mom," he asks, "what’s going on? There’s a whole crowd outside, and I— Blaine?”

“Cooper. Come here.”

The woman calls to him, the Avox's brother, through her tears, and ushers him to her side. Only now does he seem to notice the Peacekeeper and Kurt’s presence, and his face pales. He walks to her stiffly and takes her hands, staring down at the Avox and back to his mother who nods a silent confirmation. Cooper’s eyes well with tears of his own.

The Peacekeeper has grown disinterested. With the assurance that the Avox nor his family possess any treacherous plans, he only appears eager to return the neighborhood to its former state to prevent any further chaos from escalating outside.

“Let’s move out,” he says to Kurt, harsh. “We need to get you back to the Justice Building before dark. Get him off the floor.” Without another word, the Peacekeeper storms out, brushing past the door he nearly broke off its hinges when he entered. He can be heard shouting out in front of the house, clearing the crowd of onlookers drawn by the noise inside.

Kurt is rooted where he stands, feeling as though every last bit of energy he’d had earlier today has been wiped out in the span of a few minutes. The Avox is still prostrate, breathing hard and shaking. His family is staring at Kurt with trepidation. It takes him a moment to realize that they fear him just as much as they fear the Peacekeeper and his gun.

Of course they do. He’s from the Capitol. He’s the one dragging their son and brother around like a dog on a leash. Kurt feels sick again.

“You have twenty seconds before we leave,” he tells them, clipped.

In the blink of an eye the Avox’s older brother is kneeling at his side, helping him to his feet. He kisses the younger man’s face and stares at him as though making an attempt to memorize the placement of every atom. Their mother wraps her arms around them both, but the Avox grabs at her hand, pointing to the tarnished wedding band on her finger.

“He’s working late today, buddy,” Cooper says sadly. “He’ll- He’ll be so sorry to hear he missed you.” He tries to chuckle, but it doesn’t sound like much more than a half-contained sob.

The Avox gapes wordlessly and shakes his head. He has so many things to say, and no time or means to do so. Finally, Kurt sees him take a step back, pulling his arms away from his family to jerk them through a series of rapid motion—pointing to himself, crossing his arms over his chest, and pointing his index finger toward them. Everyone stares, clueless, as he repeats the motion, a clearly emphatic gesture that no one but the Avox himself seems to comprehend.

Then he shakes his head, waves his hands as if to clear a slate, and taps his chest—his heart—before pressing his hands to theirs. He mouths a few silent words as best he can, lips in an exaggerated motion to compensate for what he lacks.

“Oh,” his mother sobs. “We love you, too.”

The Avox smiles, and the toothy grin lights up his face even as the atrophied muscles there tremble from disuse. It’s such a strange, gutting sight that Kurt nearly has to wipe at his own eyes to hide the way it affects him. He’s alarmed and caught off guard by his reaction, and the shock of emotion is enough to detach him from the scene altogether. Kurt glances over his shoulder at the door.

Outside, the noise of the crowd has nearly faded. The Peacekeeper’s shouts are growing few and far between, and Kurt knows they’re running out of time. If he returns to see this display, they will all be in trouble, Kurt included.

“We have to go,” he says firmly.

The Avox rushes back into their arms, doing everything he can to hold his brother and his mother tight at the same time. His face presses to his mother’s chest, and she strokes his hair, so tender one would think he was a newborn, not a man.

Kurt stands forgotten in the corner of the room. Acting on impulse, he lifts the camera to his face and snaps a single, silent photo.

“Come on,” he orders, louder. “We have to go.”

The Avox pulls back immediately, too programmed for obedience to deny Kurt even now. He takes his family’s hands and kisses each of their cheeks in turn before stepping away from them and hastily heading out the door. Kurt hangs back, feeling as though he should say something. Apologize, maybe. For what? For bringing a mother’s son back to haunt her? For taking him away again?

“His name is Blaine?” he finally murmurs.

They both nod. Cooper wraps an arm around his mother’s shoulders, keeping her close.

“Blaine Devon,” the woman tells him. “My youngest boy.”

Kurt nods silently. He has nothing else to say.

“Take care of him, Sir?” she asks. “Would you?”

He can’t meet her eyes. He can’t promise something out of his control. When they return to the Capitol in a few short days, the Avox will likely be taken into a different form of service, his time with Kurt complete. He certainly can’t promise something he’s not sure he believes is right, either. Son or not, brother or not, an Avox is a traitor, and no tearful display in a circumstantial reunion can change that fact, even if it had tugged at his own heartstrings.

Kurt turns and leaves without a word, designer boots moving too loud over the dust-covered floorboards. Maybe he’ll have the Avox clean them tonight, he thinks, stepping back outside.

The Avox.

Blaine.

He’s a few yards away with the Peacekeeper, who now holds Kurt’s bag of sketchpads, notebooks, and pencils over his own shoulder. The Avox is otherwise occupied with the rope binding his wrists tight together behind his back. He appears entirely unafraid. He’s bowed, subordinate, and hardly seems to register the feeling of the Peacekeeper’s loaded gun pressed into his back.

“Ready to go, Mr. Hummel?”

When they arrive back at the Justice Building, the Avox is taken directly to his room across the hall from Kurt’s. His bonds are removed once he’s past the door, and it’s pulled shut behind him, locked from the outside.

“He’s not to leave this building without a Peacekeeper,” Kurt’s escort tells him immediately afterward. “I will make all of my colleagues aware of his actions today, but you must know, at this point in time, that he is considered a safety and security hazard to the District. As the resident Capitol ambassador who brought him here, he is your responsibility to monitor within this building.”

“I understand perfectly,” Kurt says.

The Peacekeeper makes a further suggestion. “Perhaps tomorrow we can consider leaving your ‘comforts of home’ behind?”

“Perhaps,” Kurt allows, tense. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a call to make to the Capitol.”

The Head Gamemaker apologizes profusely to Kurt when he’s made aware of the situation a few minutes later on the phone. He had no idea, and he is willing to do “whatever necessary” to make up for such a massive inconvenience. If Kurt wishes, he will personally see to it that another Avox is sent to District 9 immediately by aircraft and the “accidental” Avox sent back to the Capitol on the return flight.

“No, no,” Kurt tells him. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you, though, Seneca. I really do appreciate your willingness to set things right.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Hummel. I am truly sorry about this mishap; it shouldn’t have occurred.”

Kurt opens his mouth to agree, but the image of the Avox and his family embracing is staring back at him from the monitor he’s set up on his desk to review the day’s photographs. Somehow it’s difficult to equate such a moment with the word ‘mishap’. Instead Kurt weasels his way out of the conversation and ends the call a minute later.

He’d had no choice but to report the incident himself. If he hadn’t, the Capitol would still learn about it from Peacekeeper reports or by word of mouth. At least he feels better now that it’s over with. He can try to move on and attempt to forget, though Kurt isn’t sure it’s possible to clear his head of what he witnessed today.

He tries to work on his designs for a while, to see if anything he saw on his tour of the District can be used to influence the details. But the only thing standing out in his mind is a crying mother and a true prodigal son. It kills his creativity. He closes his sketchpads with a sigh, stands up from the desk in the corner of his temporary room, and heads out into the hallway.

He pulls the key out from his pocket and unlocks the door across from his own, knocking to make his presence known. Pushing it open gradually, Kurt peers inside.

The Avox is on his bed, reclined on his stomach. He’s still in full uniform except for his shoes, which are resting neatly on the floor beside him. He’s so still he could be asleep if not for his open eyes staring blankly at the beige wall. It’s hard to tell from where he’s standing, but Kurt thinks he may have been crying. His curls are tousled in an unnatural way that doesn’t speak of bedhead, and there are dark patches on the blue pillowcase beneath his head. Could they be tears?

Kurt isn’t allowed to ask. He’s not sure he’d have the courage to ask even if it wasn’t inappropriate.

As long as they remain housed in the Justice Building, however, the Avox is his responsibility, and with strict rules to keep him confined in here unless absolutely necessary, Kurt does have a few questions that are appropriate to ask.

“Do you need anything to eat or drink?”

The man on the bed remains unmoving.

Kurt sighs. “Answer me,” he orders.

The Avox shakes his head, over-exaggerating the movement to make sure it can be seen from across the room. No.

“Do you need to use the bathroom?” No.

“Did they give you a chance to shower earlier this evening while I was busy?” An affirmative nod. Yes.

“You’ll be locked in here until tomorrow morning; do you understand?” Yes.

“And there’s nothing you need? Last chance until morning,” Kurt says. The Avox shakes his head.

“Alright, then,” he replies. Kurt grabs the doorknob in preparation to pull it shut, but he lingers on the threshold, pausing for a long moment.

“I… I know it’s been a hard day,” he finally says. Kurt doesn’t know why he’s still speaking. Is he actually trying to comfort an Avox? “But try to get some rest, okay? We still have a long week ahead of us.”

No, he realizes. He’s not trying to comfort an Avox. He’s trying to comfort the man named Blaine—the boy with teary eyes who had served him juice with a shaking hand—who had lost his family for the second time today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: After seeing Pollux briefly use ASL in the film adaptation of Mockingjay (part 1), I considered whether or not it would make sense for it to make an appearance within this story without seeming like a copout to allow Blaine to communicate. It appears that the Capitol has the technology to reverse hearing loss (Katniss regains her ability to hear after the explosion in the arena leaves her deaf in one ear), so perhaps ASL is rarely needed and rarely used in the Capitol. However, I can't imagine that it's completely forgotten throughout Panem, and although Avoxes are obviously not part of the Deaf community, it certainly seems feasible to me that, as Avoxes were brought in from so many different backgrounds spanning decades of time, ASL could have been secretly integrated into their lives, word by word, in order to allow those who wanted to risk communicating with one another to do so.
> 
>   * [Reference for Blaine's ASL](http://www.lifeprint.com/asl101/pages-signs/l/love.htm)
> 

> 
> As always, reader feedback is greatly appreciated! :) Chapter 6 will be up next Monday. Hugs to everyone preparing for the series finale of Glee tomorrow night!


	6. Chapter 6

Blaine can’t remember the last time he felt this tired. He can’t remember the last time he felt this sad, either. For that matter, he can’t remember the last time he felt _anything_ as strongly as the way he’s feeling so many different things right now.

Living as a mute servant can do that to a person, he’s learned. When everyone consistently treats you like an automated machine with a single setting—obey—you may begin to forget that the single-setting robot isn’t what you really are. And if they treat you that way long enough, you may start to lose yourself entirely.

Before today, Blaine hadn’t heard himself addressed by name since he was 12 years old. The woman in the marketplace—he’d been trying so hard to remember who she was all afternoon, to no avail—had stirred something inside him. Being home was already enough to make his blood flow like it hadn’t in ages; smelling fresh cut grain on the wind from fields in the midst of harvest had been a jolt to his senses.

But hearing his own name? Blaine never thought he’d get to experience that sort of familiarity with another human being again.

He isn’t an individual anymore, after all, at least not where it counts. He’s a number in the Capitol system, with a tracker identification tag, summary of his crime, date of committal, and list of labor jobs performed with grades attached to show his strengths and weaknesses. It’s no wonder he’d been accidentally shipped straight into his mother’s arms. The Capitol didn’t see him as enough of a person to consider that one of the twelve Districts had ever been his home— _is_ his home—cruelty, poverty, and misery aside.

Blaine spends the rest of the night tossing and turning, trying to sleep like his superior from the Capitol had suggested when he’d peeked in earlier to check on him. It all proves to be rather pointless in the end, however. He rolls over, flips his pillow to the cool side, and tries to clear his head, but the only thing accomplished by not trying to think of his mother’s face, aged after years apart, is thinking about her even more. He will never see her again, he’s sure. Though the Capitol sent him here once, they would never make the same mistake twice. And there’s no way he’ll be allowed anywhere near the housing community a second time this week; from what he overheard of the conversation discussing his fate, Blaine is fairly certain he’ll hardly be leaving this room.

He’s clammy and hot under his clothes. Eventually he takes the top of his uniform off to let the air chill his skin, but then he’s too cold and far too vulnerable without it, so he tugs it back on and lays down. He reclines on his back and stares at the ceiling like he used to when he was a boy, sleeping in one bedroom with the rest of his family. If he focuses hard enough on fading memories, Blaine can almost hear his brother’s breath beside him on the mattress they’d shared for years. But he yawns too wide, chokes on his own saliva that he can’t stop from sliding down his windpipe, and scrambles to lean over the edge of the bed, gripping the sheets to ride out another coughing fit.

Stupid idea, he thinks. He deserves to choke. He knows better than to pit his mutilation against gravity.

When he's finished gasping for breath, Blaine collapses down onto his stomach, shoving his flattened palms beneath the soft weight of his pillow. He clamps his mouth shut and breathes through his nose. Sleep finds him eventually. He doesn’t know when. There’s no clock or window in his room—no way to determine the time of day or to see if the sun is already rising.

His nightmares return with a strength he hasn’t seen since his first few months without a voice. Over and over again, he’s run down by a patrol of Peacekeepers while the enormous fence in the distance never seems to get any closer. He struggles to hide amongst the grain that bends and sways around him, leaving him exposed when the wind catches just right. He begs for forgiveness and sobs out apologies as best he can through all the tears and dirt and snot on his face. The world shifts from darkness to blinding white light. He feels his mouth sear with pain, feeling the blood gush even though he cannot taste it, and he wakes up with a mangled shout and drool tracking down his chin from thrashing to escape the memories, some fabricated by his imagination and others far too real.

By the time he receives a knock at his door the following day and hears the deadbolt click, his body feels leaden and his head feels like a sheaf of wheat waiting to be threshed, remnants of the nightmares lingering like stubborn chaff amongst the seeds. He still gets to his feet, stepping into his shoes and straightening out the wrinkles in his uniform as he best he can as the door opens.

It’s a Peacekeeper. Blaine shivers. His assigned Capitol citizen wouldn’t exactly be a welcome sight, but Blaine’s fairly sure he would rather see the blue-streaked hair than the faceless helmet.

“Come on,” the Peacekeeper says, sounding irritated to be landed with the job of babysitting the Avox.

Blaine follows him out, down the hall to a bathroom. He’s allowed to wash his face, which feels heavenly after the mess he’d become last night, and the Peacekeeper stands monitoring his every move, even as he relieves himself. It’s awkward, but no worse than what he’s faced at the Capitol.

A meal is waiting for him when he’s returned to his room and locked up once more. He looks at the oatmeal on the tray, swimming in goat’s milk, one of the go-to breakfasts of District 9. As a less popular commodity than wheat throughout Panem, enough oats are commonly grown here to spare some extra padding on everyone’s rations without taking tesserae—perhaps the only clear advantage of living in the grain District. The dish itself is traditionally bland and unsweetened. It wouldn’t taste like much even if Blaine could detect specific flavors, but he is still able to revisit the familiar texture from his childhood with every bite.

The accompanying muffin is harder to eat. With no work to attend to, however, Blaine has plenty of time to pick it apart into bites that he can manage.

For the rest of the week he’s allowed out of his room only a handful of times—for bathroom breaks, to cook meals for his service assignment, to take care of laundry and other miscellaneous duties. He doesn’t catch a glimpse of his District again, not even through a window.

He stands in Kurt’s bedroom at the end of the week, on the morning of the Reaping. Blaine keeps his eyes down while the stylist dresses, standing by if he’s needed.

“Do up these buttons for me?” Kurt requests, gesturing to the shirt draped over his shoulders. He’s running a few minutes behind schedule and is starting on his hair, running at least a half dozen products through it with his fingers as he peers critically into a large mirror set into the wall.

Blaine bends his knees to stay out of the way and reaches up to slide each button into place across the man’s pale chest. As soon as he gets the last one done, Kurt’s hurrying out of the room, calling back an order to the Avox on his way, “Pack up my things. Our train will be leaving soon, after the tributes have been selected.”

He does as he’s told. One by one he carefully folds every piece of Kurt’s wardrobe and stows it in his luggage. It’s calming, the routine of it. His fingers move across the fabric with ease. Blaine symmetrically arranges the clothes in the suitcase laying open on the bed, and when he’s finished with his task, moves across the hall and shoves his own few things into a small drawstring bag. He hears rushed footsteps approaching in the hall and stares toward the open doorway just in time to see a Peacekeeper marching two children down the hall. The girl is crying. The haunting sounds of terror echo in the silence of the Justice Building. Blaine bites his lip and shuts his door to try drowning out the noise.

The Tributes of District 9 have been Reaped.

Blaine is taken back to the train station after the tributes, mentors, escort, and Kurt have departed in their own vehicle. He singlehandedly loads everyone’s bags into the back of the second vehicle at the bottom of the Justice Building steps. Rushed by Peacekeepers to keep to a schedule, it takes only a few minutes for him to complete the job.

“Put your hands out,” one of them orders. He approaches Blaine with a segment of rope. The Avox isn’t surprised. He easily complies, allowing a pair of deft knots to bind his wrists together. Blaine winces at the burn against his skin when they’re pulled too tight, but his silent protest is ignored as he’s unceremoniously herded into the back of the vehicle, sitting cramped against two suitcases and uncomfortably close to the Peacekeeper keeping an eye on him for any sudden movements that might indicate another attempt to flee and rendezvous with his family or friends.

The drive back out to the train station is miserable. Blaine tries not to glance out the windows. He knows watching his home slip by him again, certainly for the last time, will only leave him unhinged. He’s going back to the Capitol; there’s no time to dwell on his loss.

It’s just early afternoon, but the mid-June sun perched in the center of the sky is beating down hard on the District. Couple that with Blaine’s duty to load all the luggage onto the train once they arrive, and the Avox is exhausted by the time he’s finally sent to his own quarters in the back of the locomotive.

He immediately heads to the shower in the tiny servants' bathroom adjacent to his equally tiny bed space. While he rinses the sweat from his body, the train gives a single lurch that almost sends him careening to the floor, but he recovers quickly once the acceleration has given way to a maintained speed and finishes washing up before drying off and changing into a fresh white uniform.

A handwritten list of duties and an accompanying schedule is waiting for him on his bed when he returns to his sleeping compartment. Blaine’s grateful for the reminder. Even now that there are half a dozen people on board to serve for the next 16 hours, he remains the only Avox here to do the job. It’s more than a little daunting, especially here on the train that is so different from his usual stint in the lavish buildings of the Capitol, but Blaine knows he can handle it as long as he sticks to his directions and obeys.

The first stop he makes is the dining car, with an iced bucket of bottled beverages under one arm and a slew of drinking glasses in his other hand. As noted by the schedule, the entire entourage of Capitol and District 9 citizens is congregated at the table.

Blaine serves the adults first, pouring wine or liquor as they prefer. Then he steps around the table to the tributes, unable to keep himself from looking them over. They’re on the younger end of the spectrum of age limitations—can’t be any older than 14. The girl’s eyes are still puffy from crying, and though the boy is clearly trying his hardest to remain calm, Blaine can see the way his hands are clenched beneath the table.

His heart aches for them. If things had gone differently in his own life, Blaine would probably know these two children by name. He would have seen them in the marketplace, or running through the housing community with a group of other kids, determined to have fun no matter how difficult the always-present Peacekeepers made it.

As it stands, however, Blaine cannot show his sympathy. He can only set out a pair of glasses on the table and show the two of them the drinks he has brought along to choose from.

They both choose water. Blaine doesn’t blame them. With so many thirsty crops to quench, his community has always had strict water restrictions, the small rations the same no matter how hot nor how long the workday was. He pours them the tallest glasses he can manage without spilling and hands them over gently. For a few moments he lingers, eyeing Kurt for any further instructions.

“Go on,” the stylist says offhandedly, waving his hand. Blaine bows and exits and isn’t needed again until it’s time to serve a midday meal. It’s a casual affair compared to the supper he’ll prepare later. At noon exactly, he returns to the dining car with platters carrying small bowls of soup and a pile of sandwiches full to the brim with every condiment he could find stocked in the kitchen. After he makes his delivery, he leaves them again and returns to his quarters for a brief period of relaxation before he must rise to begin meal preparations once more.

Supper, the tributes’ first experience of Capitol food on an extravagant scale, is an utterly ridiculous affair. Blaine is required to prepare a feast in the small kitchen car with the smallest amount of counter space he’s ever worked with. The mingling scents of a dozen different dishes threaten to overwhelm him once he gets underway. Opening the ventilation slats on the side of the train car do little but add to the problem by compounding the scent of trees and pollen on top of the vegetables roasting in the oven, the meat sizzling in the grill pan, heavily-seasoned sauces bubbling on the stove, and nearly a half dozen other sides and garnishes in various stages of completion.

Blaine remains in the dining car throughout the course of the meal, constantly on standby to refill drinks, take empty serving dishes, and comply with any other order given. Presiding over the entire meal gives him the chance to observe the tributes up close for an extended period of time. Thankfully they seem to have risen above the initial shock enough to be able to enjoy the bounty he’d painstakingly prepared.

Most of the conversation at the table goes over Blaine’s head. After years of attending meals full of gossip and Capitol drama, he’s learned to tune things out. But something sparks his attention in the middle of the second course, and Blaine refocuses, away from monitoring the levels of all their drinking glasses.

They’re talking about him, he realizes.

“Yes, he made all of this himself. I’ve had him in my service for a good two weeks now, and I can attest to his fine culinary skills. It’s very impressive.” That’s Kurt speaking, answering a question from one of the tributes, no doubt.

The young girl turns around in her chair to look at him. Blaine avoids her eye, afraid to look at her and see a face so full of life that will more than likely be dead by the end of the month. “Why doesn’t he say anything?” she asks.

“Tongue’s cut out,” says her escort as she reaches for a serving dish to refill her plate. It’s a flippant observation, of little consequence. “He’s a traitor, called an Avox. A voiceless life is his punishment for his crimes, whatever they may be. You’ll see more of them in the coming days, once we’ve arrived at the Capitol.”

“Don’t get friendly with him—or with any of them, for that matter,” one of the District mentors warns. “That won’t earn you any favor with the audience.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Blaine sees Kurt nodding in agreement. “Avoxes take orders and instructions,” he says. “Otherwise they aren’t to be addressed.”

Blaine wonders if Kurt is simply informing the tributes or if he’s giving himself a reminder of his own protocol. Although he listens to every word exchanged about his situation, Blaine stares straight ahead at the opposite wall, giving the appearance that he either doesn’t care or doesn’t have the capacity to understand anything that’s not in the form of a command. He’s used to this by now. It’s his every day. Though it never gets any easier to be treated like an object. A forbidden object, no less.

Playing his role to a tee, he completes his duty to preside over the meal and takes the empty dinnerware back to the kitchen to wash later. First, as per the schedule, he has other jobs to attend to, and he ventures back through the dining car and on toward the front of the train.

There are more sleeping cars trailing behind the engine than there had been with the train he and Kurt had left the Capitol on. Blaine’s duties are a bit more extensive with the greater number of passengers. He turns down the beds for the adults who each have luxurious rooms of their own. Blaine finds the tributes’ Capitol escort already in hers when he enters after going through Kurt’s and each of the mentors’ cars respectively.

She’s sitting at the vanity in the corner, which is bolted down into the floor to keep it upright in case of any unanticipated jerks on the tracks. The woman is busy removing her thick makeup. Blaine walks to the bed as silently as possible and pulls back the comforter and sheets, fluffing the down pillows with quick expertise.

“About time you got here,” she snaps. Blaine glances in her direction and sees her watching him in the mirror’s reflection. The brown makeup around one of her eyes is smeared like dried blood. “I need the humidifier on. That dirt pile of a District is far too arid for my lungs, but the Capitol refuses to transfer me nearer to the coast. It’s despicable the way they treat me.”

His thick skin is feeling worryingly thinner than usual after seeing his mother and brother several days ago. The insult to his home stings. Blaine tries not to let it linger in his mind. He knows the woman is perfectly capable of hitting the few buttons on the wall to turn on the machine herself, but he does it without complaint and returns to preparing the bed for her.

He stands nearby when he’s finished, waiting.

The escort takes her time wiping every ounce of caked on product from her skin. As more layers of color are removed her complexion grows sunken and increasingly unpleasant to view until the Avox stops stealing glances altogether. He keeps his eyes down.

Fifteen more minutes pass before she finally stands from her chair, face clean and sallower than a corpse’s. “Go fetch me a glass of water.”

Blaine bows and hurries out. On the way he passes Kurt and the two mentors in discussion with the tributes, all five of them still seated at the dining table. He continues on as unobtrusively as possible to the kitchen. The dishes from dinner are still awaiting his attention, leftovers and residue drying out in the open air. The mess is exhausting to look at after a day of work. He’ll be awake for another hour at least.

Blaine fills a glass from the filtered water pitcher in the fridge and turns back. One of the mentors clears his throat loudly as Blaine passes once more through the dining car. He stops in his tracks, facing the table.

“Our guests will be heading to bed soon,” the man says. “I’m sure they would appreciate a bath before turning in if you’ll see to it.”

A quick nod and Blaine is on his way again. He delivers the glass of water with a bow of his head and receives another hiss in return, “What took you so long? And no ice cubes, either?” The back of the woman's hand collides with his cheek, stinging his skin, and she rolls her eyes with disgust. “Get out.”

It’s a harsh repayment for doing everything she verbally required, but Blaine makes nothing of it. He’s heard and felt much worse, hurled toward both himself and others. He's lucky that she had already taken off her sharp jewelry, and at least with her dismissal he won’t have to face her again until breakfast.

Now he can focus on the two occupants of this train that he feels not only obliged to serve to his best of his ability, but whom he _wants_ to serve.

He can do nothing to express his sympathy for his fellows of District 9 out loud. He can’t scribble them his life story on a sheet of paper and tuck it beneath their pillows; it would do nothing but upset them, anyway. He has no way of letting them know they’re not alone, that he’s lost his home, too—but Blaine finds other ways.

He doubts they’ll even recognize his gestures as any extra kindness. After all, they have no other experiences to compare this to. But it settles Blaine’s mind a little to feel as though he’s making a difference in his own minuscule way. He’s powerless against the Capitol. He’s powerless to stop the Games, and he can’t give them back their home any more than he can run back into his mother’s arms. But he can be their ally for the night. He can offer them any comfort that’s within his power to give.

Blaine draws them each a bath in the washrooms adjacent to their private sleeping quarters. Ignoring protocol to conserve the train’s limited supply of hot water whenever possible, he brings two steaming tubfuls through the pipes from tanks hidden overhead. He searches the linen closest to seek out the softest towels and pours in the best bath oils he can find onboard, labels claiming to include aromas that might soothe their stress and aloe that might soothe their sunburned skin.

Of the bedding on board, he takes the softest sheets to spread out on the tributes’ beds. He replaces their adequate cotton pillows with a mixed pair, one down goose feathers, the other a firm memory foam, giving them options to find their own comfort. Finally, he brings a cool bottle of water for each of their nightstands from the kitchen.

It’s all he can do. At least it’s something.

As he exits back out into the narrow hallway, Kurt, the mentors, and the male tribute are passing by. Blaine presses back against the wall to let them pass. He watches the boy as subtly as he can, seeing him ushered into the room where his bath is waiting. The door closes behind him, and the two mentors continue toward their sleeping cars while Kurt hangs back.

“They’re lucky it’s you on this train,” he remarks quietly when they’re alone. “I’m sure they’ll sleep more comfortably tonight than they would have otherwise.”

It’s admittedly a little jarring to know that Kurt so easily suspected Blaine’s plan to pamper the children where he could, but just two hours ago Kurt had reiterated to the entire train that Avoxes were meant to receive orders and nothing else. If anyone is going to forget that rule, it certainly isn’t going to be Blaine. He makes no gesture to acknowledge the statement.

“We shouldn’t require you until breakfast,” Kurt says. “You’re dismissed for the night.”

Blaine nods and turns away, exiting before Kurt can speak again, on his way back through the dimly lit cars to the kitchen and his own quarters beyond.

He’s distracted, thinking of Kurt’s words when he runs headlong into the girl tribute heading in the opposite direction. They both jump back. Blaine’s mind goes blank. He raises his hands and bows his head automatically, apologetic, even though he realizes a moment later she has no prior conditioning that would prompt her to be angry with him.

“Oh, I’m—I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “Excuse me. I should watch where I’m going.” The girl’s voice isn’t fearful, but it’s certainly a little shy. He can’t blame her.

Fully aware that it’s something he shouldn’t do, Blaine lifts his eyes and takes in her face. She has soft features, round with youth, and wide hazel eyes. Her complexion bears the familiar tan of District 9. It’s the only attribute they share in meeting from their two different worlds, though her skin is cracked and dry where Blaine’s has turned smooth. She is burned red in several places by long exposure to the unforgiving sun.

Blaine wonders what tasks she’d been set to back home in the fields. Maybe they had even done the same work. If only he could ask. If only he could tell. He supposes it doesn’t matter now. He’ll never return to District 9. It’s unlikely that she will either, so young.

He reaches out slowly and takes one of her rough hands in both of his, giving it a long, gentle squeeze that he hopes is reassuring. Momentarily, he considers attempting a smile, but the Avox’s face has grown so accustomed to being expressionless that he finds it difficult to shift the muscles on cue. The empty stare holds fast to his features.

She smiles, though. It’s as shy as her voice. It’s more than enough for Blaine.

“Thank you,” says the girl. He doesn’t know what she’s thanking him for, but he nods as sincerely as he can, hoping the gesture is distinguishable from his perfunctory nods of obedience.

They part in silence. Blaine spends another half hour in the kitchen, scrubbing plates, dishes, silverware under ice cold water in the sink.

His nightmares return once again after the train has rocked him to sleep. Thankfully the panicked crash of his tumble from the small bunk onto the caboose’s bare metal floor is muffled by the roll of the wheels on the track, and he knows he hasn’t disturbed anyone in the cars out front.

Blaine leans back against the wall and breathes hard, wiping the tears off his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally some Blaine POV! Let me know what you think!  
> Next chapter coming up this Thursday, March 26.


	7. Chapter 7

As soon as they pull into the Capitol and the train glides to a smooth stop, Blaine is at the ready for departure with Kurt’s belongings at his feet. The tributes and the other adults are all gathered nearby, the District kids with wide eyes that betray their fear and wonder at their first glimpses of the Capitol’s sprawling luxury and high buildings outside the windows to their left.

The doors are on the opposite side of the train car. When they slide open with a soft mechanical hum, the passengers are received into a guarded, enclosed station, likely meant to keep the rest of the Capitol out just as much as it’s meant to keep the tributes in. Kurt appears visibly agitated as they step off the tracks onto solid ground, hovering around the male tribute and wringing his hands together.

Blaine can see his eyes raking up and down the boy’s too-thin frame while he undoubtedly tries to envision the outfit he’d added final touches to only yesterday afternoon on the train. He’d had Blaine send the scanned designs off to the Games organizers along with the boy’s measurements for expedited alterations on the previously-completed prototype. Now all the stylist can do is wait for the finished work to be delivered. And for the sake of the tribute whose first impressions are riding on the costume’s ability to pull focus and favor, Blaine hopes everything goes well.

Just when it looks like Kurt is going to burst from being forced to linger on the platform and wait, a pair of Capitol attendants and an Avox arrive through a pair of doors to usher everyone into the Remake Center, where all 24 tributes will be readied for their chariot rides. The second District 9 stylist, for the female tribute, as well as both of the prep teams, are waiting to join the entourage inside, and there’s a brief chaos of greetings and introductions before everyone starts off down the hallway. Blaine brings up the rear, struggling not to be left behind with the amount of luggage he’s burdened with.

“Go,” an unfamiliar voice snaps. “Help him.”

The other silent servant approaches Blaine from his place alongside of one of the Capitol attendants, who has now slowed his pace to fall behind the rest of the group. The Avox, a broad, brown-skinned man in a uniform as blindingly white as Blaine’s, takes the two bags from his hands, allowing him to hold on to the two remaining under his arms with ease. Blaine acknowledges his assistance with a quick, appreciative nod before the Capitol attendant is barking at them both, demanding his attention.

“This way,” he directs.

The two Avoxes are diverted to another hallway, leaving Kurt, the tributes, and everyone else to continue on without them. This particular hallway leads outside, through guarded doors, and yet another vehicle is waiting for Blaine there, to cart him off with Kurt’s bags like he’s just another piece of luggage.

He’s pushed through the doorway of Kurt’s apartment twenty minutes later with the three large bags and one suitcase shoved under his arms, then given a direct set of orders from the attendant. It doesn’t matter that they’re coming from a man he’s never seen before today. For him, every Capitol citizen’s word is law. He listens attentively.

“Mr. Hummel will be away most of the day. The opening ceremonies begin in a few hours, so he’ll be working to prepare his tribute for the chariot parade. Unpack his things,” demands the stranger, “and make sure everything is clean and in order for his return.”

Blaine hardly gets out a single nod before the door is slammed in his face, causing him to stumble backward into the hall. Being alone, he allows himself one brief sigh before he settles into his default action: service.

He works as though he’s being watched—a lesson he learned early as a young boy in District 9 when he thought he could slack off if he saw no authority figures nearby. He hadn’t noticed the Peacekeeper monitoring his group’s work as he’d settled back for a moment of rest, and he’d been punished harshly for deliberately failing to keep pace with the rest of boys around him, tying up bushels of harvested wheat.

Now as an Avox of eight years with a tracker embedded in his arm, the lesson has been hammered home time and again. His life is not his own. He never has a truly private moment. There is no way of knowing who may or may not be watching, at any time, in any place. And so Blaine moves with purpose, not even making a detour to the kitchen for a drink of water before he’s off toward Kurt’s bedroom to refill his wardrobe and dresser drawers with the clothing he’d packed into Kurt’s luggage a mere day ago.

Having left the apartment spotless when they departed a week earlier, Blaine doesn’t have a considerable amount of work to do to ensure it’s in perfect shape. He finishes putting Kurt’s clothes away within the hour, then moves on to dust every surface he can reach, going room by room from one piece of furniture to another. He sweeps, mops for good measure, and finally scrubs down the bathroom just because he has the time and he’s learned how finicky Kurt can be about sterile hygiene after one previous lecture about toothpaste residue left in the sink.

There’s nothing to do now but wait for Kurt’s return. After the tributes enter the Training Center, he’ll be attending a celebratory dinner with the Gamemakers and other important figureheads of the Games, so Blaine doesn’t even have a meal to plan other than the smoothie he blends together for himself.

And so he finds himself in the small bedroom allotted to him, sitting cross-legged on his bed as he sips at his liquefied meal, watching the television screen when it switches on automatically to reinforce the broadcast as required viewing throughout the nation.

A multitude of high-tech graphics flash by to accompany the triumphant orchestral score and Caesar Flickerman’s impassioned greeting to Panem for the opening ceremonies of the 74th annual Hunger Games. Blaine idly watches for Kurt among the crowds, but it’s hard enough to even recognize the human beings underneath all of the extravagant clothing in the tiered seats surrounding the path to the Training Center. Kurt is certain to have dressed up for the occasion as well. There’s no telling what he looks like.

A recap of the previous year’s Games kicks off the event—a reel of violent “highlights” that are so saturated with gore and screaming children Blaine has to look away more than once. Caesar and his special guest, some important Capitol figure whom Blaine doesn’t recognize, discuss the slaughter like they’re recounting fond memories of a summer outing to the park.

“Oh, and who can forget that marvelous use of the dagger from District 2’s female tribute?” one of them says with an impressively casual tone.

“Magnificent aim on every throw,” replies the other. “I was so shocked when she didn’t come out victorious.”

On screen, a boy is struck in the neck by a serrated, airborne knife. He collapses backward onto the ground and stares toward the sky, eyes possessed by what Blaine can only describe as an animalistic terror. In a panic that is surely not being governed by rational thought, he grapples at the hilt of the blade and tugs it free. Blood pours from the lethal wound, bubbles out between his pale white lips, and the boy goes still just as the District 2 tribute dashes forward and reaches into the frame to retrieve her weapon.

Blaine flinches as the canon booms, and the recap cuts to another clip.

There’s another fifteen minutes of grisly flashbacks. Then a recap of all the Reapings throughout the Districts in the last two weeks. Blaine watches the District 9 tributes being selected and feels his heart ache. The commentators discuss the more interesting Reapings, hanging notably on the Volunteer from District 12 who stepped in to take the place of her younger sister. Blaine hasn’t seen the footage until now, and he’s touched, imagining that Cooper might have done the same for him.

Caesar jumps in his seat, pretending to be caught off guard when the hour of filler finally comes to an end and the blast of a brass fanfare signals the beginning of the Tribute Parade. His exclamations are almost drowned out by cheers from the Capitol citizens as the first chariot appears at the end of the long path that leads to the Training Center towering high above, and to President Snow, who seems to be towering just as high over the rest of the crowd.

One by one the chariots embark on the one-way journey. Blaine isn’t overly impressed by any of the presentations. He’s always found the flair of Tributes’ appearances distasteful. No matter how the Capitol dresses them up now, all but one will be a mutilated corpse by the end of the month. But even he must admit the children from his home do look remarkable in their bodysuits, alternating scales of gold and white-silver giving the impression of grain stalks swaying in the sunlight. For a man like Blaine, familiar with the sight, the tributes spur a definite nostalgia.

The crowd’s reaction to them is nothing compared to their fervor for District 12, however, where the two tributes hold hands and a truly fascinating creation of yellow flame trails behind them. Even Blaine is dumbfounded, leaning forward to peer at the screen. Finally all 24 tributes are gathered in a semi-circle at the base of the Training Center. President Snow speaks. The crowd cheers. The tributes enter the building.

“What a beautiful,  _beautiful_ sight, ladies and gentleman!” Caesar exclaims as he signs off. “I think I speak for all of us when I say that the 74th Games are looking to be one of the best years yet!”

The screen goes black after the broadcast ends with one final fanfare.

Kurt arrives home late that evening. Blaine jumps up at the sound of keys turning the deadbolt, jogging from his room to meet Kurt in the entryway just as he stumbles through door. He’s clearly more than just a bit inebriated. Blaine takes his coat and hangs it up, grabs the keys from his hands, too, before Kurt can wander off with them, and deposits them on their hook by the door.

Not for the first time in the last eight years, Blaine wishes he could speak. It's hard to stand by and wait for an instruction from a man who is wobbly on his feet and blinking like an owl. The Avox does his best to prompt Kurt without words, raising his eyebrows in his general questioning manner and motioning toward the hallway where the bedrooms and bathroom are located.

“Tired,” Kurt remarks.

Blaine nods and makes to lead the way, but Kurt looks dangerously unsteady on his own. When he returns to the man’s side Kurt reaches out to drape an arm around Blaine’s shoulder and lean against him. The Avox stiffens up, clueless of how to react.

“‘m tired,” mumbles Kurt a second time.

Blaine takes a cautious step, and Kurt moves with him. Putting one foot in front of the other, Blaine manages to get him heading toward the bedroom without issue. Kurt’s weight presses against him all the way to the man’s bed where Blaine lowers him into a sitting position as gently as he can.

Without waiting for a dismissal, Blaine backs out of the room. Kurt’s too busy trying to get his fumbling hands to pull off his pants to notice when he leaves and returns a minute later with a glass of water for the bedside table. The Avox walks in to the sight of Kurt in an advanced stage of disarray. His pants are already off, leaving him in a pair of briefs that Blaine refuses to look at. His upper body provides an adequate distraction, currently tangled in his long sleeved shirt. The pressed collar has been tugged up halfway over his head, stuck on the bridge of his nose, and Kurt’s arms are twisting in an effort to pull free of the sleeves. A muffled grunt of frustration sounds behind the fabric.

Blaine smiles. It’s as close as he can get to a laugh these days—even a grin makes his cheeks noticeably tingle from the use of weak muscles—but Blaine feels the amusement bubble up in his body even if his ability to express the emotion has been shattered.

He steps over to Kurt, sets down the glass, and squats at the edge of the bed. When he reaches up and takes hold of the buttons on the shirt, Kurt’s already restricted motion freezes to a sudden halt. Blaine undoes the buttons one by one, down the length of Kurt’s chest, then takes the man’s wrists to bring his arms down where he can reach the sleeves and peel them off.

It’s not the first time he’s undressed another person. Some people in the Capitol are so high and mighty they refuse to lean down to untie their own shoelaces. Others have such surgically altered bodies that it’s a physically impossible feat, and without an Avox’s help they would be trapped in the same outfit for the rest of their days.

Glancing up as the shirt falls into his hands, Blaine finds Kurt staring. Even glazed over with a distant look, his blue eyes are piercing. Too piercing. The Avox is quick to drop his gaze and turn his focus to the shirt. With a perfected series of motions, it’s folded, and Blaine stands to set it atop Kurt’s dresser. He grabs Kurt’s pants from the floor and does the same.

His eyebrows raise inquisitively as he turns back to Kurt, constantly prepared for another instruction. All Kurt offers him is a weary smile while he reclines back onto the mattress, body crooked and legs hanging halfway over the side.

He half-slurs, half-yawns, “G’night,” which Blaine takes as a dismissal. The Avox bows slightly, attentive to protocol even though Kurt’s eyes aren’t open to see it. Then he’s backing out of the room, shutting the door behind him, and quietly moving to his own a few doors down.

Although he’s tired from the long day—arriving at the train station feels like ages ago—the first night he spends back in the Capitol offers little improvement for Blaine’s sleep. Nor does the second night. He works even harder than usual throughout the day to ensure that he’s exhausted by the time he’s dismissed to bed, but his mind doesn’t fail to conjure up terrible images that send him flailing in his sheets, crashing to the floor, howling nonsensically as he comes to. The morning afterward he fashions the most extravagant breakfast Kurt’s kitchen allows to apologize for the disturbance.

Kurt forgives him without complaint and purchases a pack of medicinal sedatives.

With the help of a tiny pill that night, Blaine is finally able to sleep again. It does nothing to stop the nightmares—on the contrary, he only feels increasingly trapped when he is unable to wake from them—but his body remains quiet and relatively relaxed. He never bothers Kurt with unwanted noise, and even though he doesn’t feels refreshed mentally upon waking, he has enough physical energy to face the day despite it.

Blaine is up and has breakfast prepared and on the table by 9 AM that morning, ready for Kurt when he steps out of the shower with a grumbling stomach. The rest of the day is a mystery until Kurt spells out the schedule for Blaine over his made-from-scratch pancakes and raspberry syrup.

It’s the fourth day they’ve been back in the Capitol. Kurt has two more days to finalize the outfit his Tribute will wear for the televised interviews the evening before the Games begin. His prep team will be coming over today to join him in the creative process. Blaine will need to prepare lunch for four, and a few smaller dishes for snacking in the den.

The idea of serving a group is almost exciting, albeit in an artificial way that has nothing to do with true happiness. It’s simply something he knows he’s capable of, and unlike scrambling to find things to do here in Kurt’s apartment, he’ll have a solid set of duties to take up the entire afternoon. As soon as breakfast is cleared away Blaine gets to work on snack-sized hors d'oeuvres and meal preparation.

Once Kurt’s guests arrive, his often quiet apartment is full of life. The extravagantly dressed crew discuss their tribute’s look, the message they want to send, and how to blend their aspirations with the tribute’s personality and already solidifying Capitol image. Is he a silent but fierce type, requiring subtle yet sharp attire? Or is he a bombshell ready to go off, who could handle a larger statement piece?

Blaine is close at hand all afternoon. He offers drinks and refreshments while Kurt and his prep team pore over various design concepts. He checks in on the food cooking in the kitchen every few minutes. Finally he sets the table, serves four delicious meals, and spends a great deal of time cleaning the dozens of dishes by hand and replacing them in the cupboards and drawers.

When he's dismissed afterward, Blaine retreats to the bedroom down the hall, but even there he’s ready to jump into action if he’s called, sitting on his bed and listening to the rumble of indistinct voices through the walls. The prep team leaves a few hours later, though, and Kurt never asks for him. When Blaine is sure his most laborious tasks are done for the day, he starts to dress down, pulling open the top dresser drawer where his few outfits are kept.

He sets his folded shirt down just as a hand raps on his door and the hinges squeak open.

“I just wanted to let you know I’ll be going out with some friends for the-” Kurt’s voice stops abruptly, “evening.” The last word of his sentence hardly sounds.

Blaine is standing across the room, shirtless, his back turned toward the doorway. He’s holding his night shirt in his left hand, exactly the same as his day uniform only made from a lighter, softer fabric, but he’s frozen in mid-movement, so overwhelmed by sudden and unexpected exposure that he can’t move a muscle.

“God,” breathes Kurt from behind. “What happened to you?”

He sounds just as horrified as Blaine feels. By the time he manages to break out of his paralysis, suddenly scrambling to get his shirt on, Kurt has already stepped away from the door and approached him. Blaine feels a hand lay tentatively on his back, and he tenses up, movements stuttering to a halt once again. He’s not accustomed to being touched. Not intentionally.

There’s an uncertain twitch in Kurt’s hand that Blaine can feel. He’s almost hesitant, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead he traces down over Blaine’s shoulder blade and to the left, one smooth fingertip following the path of the hideous scar risen above the rest of Blaine’s skin. Blaine can’t see it without the help of a mirror, but he knows what it looks like, knows what Kurt’s staring at. He’s all too familiar with the jagged line, a shade lighter than the skin around it.

The rest of the superficial marks left by the Peacekeeper’s whip over a decade ago have long since healed and faded, but this one final strike had split him open with terrifying ease, the edges of the wound fraying like a knifepoint slicing into the skin of an overripe peach. It’s been a long time, and Blaine has changed so much, but sometimes he still feels like that 10-year-old boy screaming on the whipping post of District 9. All for daring to take a moment of rest while he should have been working.

“Who did this to you?” asks Kurt. Blaine doesn’t know if it’s a rhetorical question or if Kurt is so alarmed by what he sees that he’s momentarily forgotten the Avox can’t answer him.

But now the man’s hand is pressing against his shoulder, where yet another scar disfigures his body. Blaine is 20 and old enough now to be thankful the bullet had only grazed him. When he’d been 12, however, the combined sound of a gunshot and sudden, blistering pain had been enough to make him fall to the ground in panic just as quickly as if he’d been shot dead.

“Blaine?”

The Avox sucks in a breath, curling inward and away from Kurt’s touch.

“Blaine,” Kurt says his name again. It hurts even worse the second time, like he’s being teased. His name being uttered here is playing at a familiarity that he can never have with anyone in a place like the Capitol. Not in this uniform. He wants to be angry with Kurt for using it. He has no right to know his name when Blaine has come  _this_ close to forgetting it in the dull horror that’s consumed his last eight years. Still, Kurt presses on, “Who did this to you?”

He doesn’t know what else to do. He reaches into the drawer of the bedside table, grabs a notepad, pencil, and begins to write. It takes a long measure of time for him to form the letters; he hasn’t written by hand since before he was brought to the Capitol, and even at home it was a rarely-needed skill for a young boy destined to sow crops in a field until he turned to dust himself.

Judging by Kurt’s expression when Blaine turns to hand the pad and pencil over to him, he’s is expecting a full explanation. He wants to know where the scars came from. He wants to know who wielded the weapons that left Blaine’s skin marred. He’s from the Capitol; he’s always gotten what he wanted.

Kurt looks both stunned and eager, unable to believe that the Avox is breaking protocol to communicate with him. When he reaches to take the paper from Blaine’s hand, Kurt draws out the movement as if he’s trying to savor the moment. The display is aggravating, and Blaine shoves his hand forward an inch, insistent. Kurt is startled. He grabs the notepad quickly, pulling it out of Blaine’s grip before Blaine can change his mind.

Kurt meets Blaine’s dead-eyed gaze with a curious stare.

He looks down at what Blaine has written.

_I am not allowed to share, Mr. Hummel._

He looks back up. The glimmer is gone from his eyes.

Blaine tugs on his night shirt with an air of finality, though he remains still and subservient, never letting his face move away from the stoic mask. He waits, turning his eyes down toward the floor, for Kurt to speak, entirely uncertain of what to expect. If Kurt’s angry enough with him for not turning over his life story, then he could take the note and have Blaine punished for breaching his order of silence.

Blaine doesn’t know what sort of punishment he would receive for an infraction like this. He’s been in trouble before, for minor mistakes and accidents. He’d been given a black eye for accidentally spilling a glass of red wine while presiding over a meal several months ago. A year before that he’d been beaten bloody after having trouble adjusting to a new assignment of sorting through the Capitol’s garbage by hand to pick out recyclable materials.

Minor slip ups were one thing; every Avox experienced them at one time or another. But communicating with a Capitol citizen? Blaine knows this would earn him much worse than just another beating.

Maybe they would kill him for it. Put a bullet through his brain without ceremony and dump him in a landfill or an incinerator somewhere, far away from the dust-covered cemetery in District 9 where his family has two generations buried in the earth.

Kurt tears off the sheet of paper, crushes it up in his hand, and tosses it in the wastebasket. He drops the notepad and pencil onto the bed.

“I’ll be going out this evening with some friends,” he tells Blaine, finally, finishing his earlier announcement as though nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. “I don’t expect to be back until late, and I don’t expect you to wait up for me. Consider yourself dismissed for the night.” From his pocket Kurt pulls out a tiny foil and plastic packet containing Blaine’s dose of sleep medication, handing it over before he turns around and heads back toward the door.

Blaine bows his head. As soon as he’s alone once more, he hits the light switch on the wall. It’s early yet. He hasn’t had dinner. He hasn’t showered. He hasn’t taken any free time, and he’s mildly interested in inspecting the remote on the bedside table to see if he can figure out how to turn on the television to see the tributes’ training scores. But he feels inexplicably drained of energy. Blaine wants nothing more than to sleep, even if it means more nightmares.

He rips open the packet in his fingers, chokes down the pill without water, then climbs into bed, burrowing under the covers. He doesn’t even care when his legs jostle the notepad and pencil at the end of the bed and knock them to the floor. Normally he’d scramble to clean up any mess he had made no matter how miniscule. Tonight all he can think is that they’ll still be there in the morning. He’ll put them away then.


	8. Chapter 8

Blaine spends the entirety of the fifth day back in the Capitol expecting Kurt to corner him with another interrogation about his past and the scars hidden underneath his uniform. As soon as Kurt steps from the shower and sits down for breakfast, Blaine steels himself for another volley of questions, wondering how he might react if Kurt had the gall to orderthe information from him. If he answered, he would be revealing information he is not allowed to share. If he didn’t answer, he would be disobeying a command. Both were prohibited actions. Surely Kurt wouldn’t force him into such a situation.

But he can’t be sure. An Avox can never be sure of anything.

Once he’s at the table, Kurt only speaks to him at first to request cinnamon for his toast. Blaine hurries back into the kitchen to grab it, breathing a sigh of relief before he returns and sets it down on the table.

“Last night was a bust,” Kurt mumbles then, through his chewing. Blaine blinks, anxiety creeping in as he prepares to receive Kurt’s frustration at his lack of cooperation the evening before. But Kurt continues by complaining about his “pathetic attempt” to socialize with his friends at a nightclub a few blocks down the street. It has nothing to do with Blaine.

“I don’t know,” sighs Kurt, directing a contemplative stare at the bacon sitting on a napkin-lined plate. Grease has already soaked through the paper layers. “It’s like I’ve been so involved with preparing for the Games that I don’t have room in my mind for anything else. All night while I was out I was just thinking about how I could be here looking over the sketches the team and I came up with earlier in the day. The interview is  _tomorrow._ I have until tonight at 8 PM to submit the final design or else it won’t be made in time. And no stylist has ever not been able to dress their tribute. God, I’d be the laughingstock of Panem.”

He would get much worse than just being laughed at,Blaine thinks. Perhaps Kurt isn’t aware, having grown up in the lap of luxury, but Blaine knows the Capitol is not a forgiving place—not once you’ve tested the boundaries of compliance and conformity. It’s unsettling to see how unclear the stakes of his own performance are to Kurt.

Blaine watches Kurt push his fork through his food with clear disinterest, still saying, “I’ve never been so stressed before in my life. I didn’t realize it until last night.”

He doesn’t understand. Why is Kurt telling him any of this? Why isn’t he eating?

Blaine steps forward and reaches questioningly for Kurt’s plates. Maybe he could prepare him something different and have the leftovers for himself. He can’t do much more for Kurt’s rising stress than to be an extra-attentive servant. He can only offer so much when he has nothing to give but himself.

His offer is waved away with a hand and a simple, “No, I’m still eating.” Blaine stands back up straight, folds his hands behind his back, and waits. Kurt’s next few bites look like an obligation. He gets down half of an egg and pauses, letting the yolk run.

“I mean—they didn’t even seem that happy to see me,” Kurt says of his friends. “Not  _me,_ really. They were just so excited to have a Games Stylist in their party. All I got the entire time were questions about the tributes, and who I thought was going to win. It was exhausting.”

Kurt’s eyes flit up to Blaine. He looks expectant. When he doesn’t look away, the Avox dares to nod his head, wishing there was an easier way to acknowledge that he’s listening without making it seem like he’s engaging in any sort of conversation. He’s not allowed to do that.

Kurt sighs again. “Why don’t you just sit down? Humor me. I’ve been stuck working for weeks now without any proper socializing.” He chuckles, sarcastic. “At least you can’t change the subject or leave if I start getting obnoxious, huh?” It almost sounds like an insult, but Kurt’s smile makes it clear that he’s teasing, even if he doesn’t realize the offensive undertone is there.

Teasing or not, the mere thought of taking a seat at Kurt’s table while he’s eating makes Blaine’s well-trained skin crawl. But if he doesn’t, Kurt’s stress will keep rising, affecting his ability to create a compelling design. That equation only leads to the tribute’s suffering, and Blaine realizes he has no other option. He’ll do it for the boy’s benefit, he convinces himself, not for Kurt.

He lifts up the chair when he pulls it back to avoid scraping the legs across the floor, and he sits down as gingerly as he can, now on eye level and only four feet from Kurt who is still watching him with that same amused smile. He talks on for another fifteen minutes, describing his experiences at the club with his friends between infrequent bites of food. Blaine listens, holding Kurt’s gaze whenever he looks up, and eventually Kurt pushes his near-empty plate away for the Avox to take care of.

“Go on and clean up,” Kurt tells him. “Then come by my office afterward. You know the room? The one at the very end of the hall, across from my bedroom.”

Blaine nods while he clears the table and balances a perfect stack of plates, utensils, and a singular coffee mug in one hand. At the sink in the kitchen he scrubs and rinses with an almost absurd attention to detail, ensuring that every last crumb and faint smear of residue is removed before he sets each dish in the drying rack. Then he rubs down the stovetop for good measure and heads back through the apartment.

He’s never gone into Kurt’s home office before. Not that he hasn’t tried, in an attempt to clean every surface he could reach, but the door has always been locked. Honestly he didn’t even know what the room was for until Kurt had told him just minutes ago. He’s a little nervous to step inside after weeks of being prohibited from entering, so even though the door is cracked open, he knocks when he arrives.

“Come in,” answers Kurt. Blaine does as he’s told, pushing the door open gently and stepping inside.

Even with his perfected, expressionless mask in place, Blaine feels his eyes go wide. Kurt’s office is a wonderland of creativity and color. There are mannequins all along one side of the room: simple wire-frame figures, full-bodied male and female shapes, and even some with adjustable joints to pose however the artist desires. Some are bare. Others have half-completed outfits. One of them has a full ensemble. Blaine recognizes it as the design worn by the male District 9 tribute at the parade a few days earlier.

Across from the mannequins, on the opposite wall is Kurt's desk. It's a massive thing with a countertop so large Blaine could easily recline on it and use it as a bed. Even so, it’s completely covered in paper, sketchpads, pens, pencils, fabric swatches, and a pair of sewing machines, one on each end. A wardrobe with a clear glass front against the far wall has been converted to hold spools of thread and fabric, all sorted by color into an approximation of the rainbow.

It's chaotic and meticulous all at once.

When Blaine’s eyes finally land on Kurt, who’s sitting back in his desk chair, he can tell that the other man has noticed the barely-there awe on his face. He’s grinning like Caesar Flickerman on a good, action-packed day of the Games. There’s a twinkle in his eye, and he looks more calm and content than Blaine has ever seen him. Blaine’s so drawn in that he doesn’t notice the smaller chair next to Kurt’s until he’s being directed to it with a beckoning hand.

“If you have nothing better to do today, I thought you might like to join me for a while,” Kurt tells him. “I could maybe use your input.”

It’s not an order, but it’s not a question either. To turn Kurt down would mean intentionally displeasing him, which is not an option Blaine has to choose from. But there are worse things he could be doing than watching a skilled designer work, and Blaine can’t help but feel a little curious to see Kurt in his element.

He sits with his back ramrod straight and folds his hands in his lap. Kurt spends the longest time on what Blaine supposes is the final set of sketches, views from the front and back. He refers to a lineup of previous versions set out nearby and takes elements from the prep team’s suggestions to incorporate—small ornamentations and tweaks.

Half an hour in, the scratch of the pencil is interrupted. “What do you think for the color?” Kurt asks. “We’ve been thinking to have his persona be a simple, guy-next-door type, with a hint of  _something_ just under the surface. Like, hidden potential. It would fit with his middle-range training score, and hopefully convince a few Sponsors to bet on him… but I’m not sure of the color.”

Holding up two swatches of fabric for Blaine to see, Kurt continues, “I just don’t know if I should stick with the grain-colored theme from the opening ceremonies, or something completely different. Would the beige be too much focus on the District?”

Blaine knows Kurt is expecting an actual response. His eyes are so tempted to dart to the doorway on his right, just to make sure they’re not being watched. But he knows they’re alone. Kurt wouldn’t be speaking to him otherwise. He has nothing to fear from this man; somehow Blaine knows that to be true.

He shakes his head no, taps his finger on the square of beige, and briefly rests his hand against his own heart. It reminds him of his home, and despite all the terrible things that happen there, he can never really stop loving District 9 in a detached way. For all its drawbacks, it’s also the only place he’d ever known love, in his family’s small house and the school on the edge of a wheat field where he’d learned to read, write, and do enough arithmetic that he could count harvested bushels and measure twine to tie the stalks together.

Blaine thinks that the color might remind the tribute of home, too. He thinks if he were in the face of death, he’d want to escape to more pleasant memories whenever possible.

Though Kurt can’t possibly understand the complexity of the Avox’s silent thoughts, he seems to grasp the meaning of his quick gesture and nods in agreement.

“Beige it is, then.”

For hours, Blaine sits at Kurt’s side and watches him work. They only break twice for Blaine to make a meal, which Kurt takes in the dining room and Blaine takes to his bedroom for privacy before they both return to Kurt’s work. The stylist asks for his opinion a few more times, thankfully each instance formed into a question that’s either a simple yes or no response, or where Blaine need only point to his choice of several options. Though Kurt doesn’t take every suggestion Blaine gives, a few things, the beige included, do make it into the final design.

“You’re probably the first Avox to help create a Tribute outfit,” Kurt tells him when he’s finished. “It’s almost a shame no one can know about it.”

Kurt smiles at him, sympathetic, and Blaine doesn’t know what to think. He takes the final sketches in his hands with care and carries them over to the small, unassuming piece of technology behind Kurt’s desk. Laying both sheets of paper down on the grid-lined screen, there’s a faint buzz as they’re detected and scanned, Within a minute a three-dimensional mockup of the design’s front and back is pieced together and projected in miniature hologram.

Blaine looks to Kurt for approval. He studies the piece for a moment and checks his watch, nods to himself, then nods to Blaine.

“Go ahead and submit it,” he permits. “Done with twenty minutes to spare!”

Blaine types in the proper authorization code on the keypad, scrolls through Kurt’s  _Important_ flagged contacts, and sends it off to the higher up Games coordinator who will take everything from there. The stylist’s job is done.

Still seated in his chair, Kurt stretches his arms up over his head with a groan, rolling his head against his shoulders. A few faint cracks can be heard, and the man lets out a constricted breath of air, asking, “Are you any good at massages?”

Blaine shrugs. He’s never tried, never been asked. It can’t be too hard, though. Taking Kurt’s hint, the Avox walks over to him and slides his hands gently onto his shoulders. It’s strange to touch anyone with such purpose, but he can feel Kurt’s warm skin beneath the fabric of his shirt. It feels nice. Blaine curls his fingers inward, flexes down and pushes into the knots he finds there.

Though it’s tough on his hands and leaves his knuckles with an ache from trying so hard, it’s satisfying to see Kurt relax underneath him. Twenty minutes later, Kurt’s slumped so far in his chair that it’s beginning to grow difficult to reach him at the proper angle. His eyes flutter open and glance up at Blaine looming overhead.

“You  _are_ good at this,” he confirms with a husky laugh. Blaine feels a shiver run down his spine at the sound, an utterly new feeling that leaves him frozen in place for a moment, unsure how to react. His head bows in a jerky acknowledgement of Kurt’s praise, but Kurt doesn’t notice. He’s already giving another set of instructions.

“Run me a hot bath,” he says. “I know I’m usually one for showers, but I think I deserve some relaxation tonight.”

Blaine nods and pulls his hands away immediately, heading out into the hallway without looking back.

In the bathroom he hovers at the edge of the tub while it fills, periodically testing the temperature of the water and making adjustments when necessary. When Kurt enters the room from the door behind him, Blaine stays focused on his task, still having another few inches to fill.

The last thing he’s expecting to see is Kurt’s bare ankle gliding past his face as he steps down into the water. Blaine turns his head in surprise and, for the second time that day, feels his eyes widen despite his best efforts to remain expressionless. This time, though, he certainly has good reason, because Blaine’s never seen another man like this before.

Sure, he’s seen nudity. He’s taken plenty of communal showers with over Avoxes in the last eight years. Here in the Capitol he’s caught glimpses of televisions and magazine spreads while he works, with bare actors or models gracing the screen or glossy page. Even back home as a boy in District 9, he had witnessed others stripped to their underclothes—sometimes stripped to nothing at all—when they were tied to the whipping posts and beaten. His own shirt had been ripped open when the Peacekeeper had strung him up on the post that day. He’s no stranger to the naked body.

But Kurt— Blaine’s never seen anything like Kurt. He’s beautiful.

Underneath his fine clothes, the Capitol man is long and lithe, from his sculpted jawline Blaine’s seen a hundred times to the miles and miles that seem to make up his legs. His torso is an expanse of smooth skin, and Blaine’s eyes can’t help but follow the natural line down from his chest, beyond his belly button, to where he’s shaved just as smooth between his legs.

Realizing he’s staring, Blaine pulls his eyes away as fast as he can. He doesn’t think Kurt noticed. The tub is still filling as he settles down into it, and Blaine’s gaze determinedly pierces the faucet, watching the water churn and bubble, looking firmly away from anything he knows he shouldn’t see.

It's hard. Blaine has never wanted to look at anything or anyone more than he wants to look back at Kurt a second time. The first glimpse had sent a spark of something through him—something alive—and after years of cloudy disinterest in his entire world that single spark felt like a scorching blaze.

But he can’t. He can’t look. He’s the servant drawing a bath. As soon as the water level hits within three inches of the tub’s rim, Blaine shuts it off, gets to his feet, and turns to leave, walking as quickly as he can toward the bathroom doorway.

Kurt’s voice follows close behind, “Wait. Stay.”

Blaine freezes, hand halfway to the doorknob. If he could, he would ask why. Why has Kurt been treating him like this all day—like he’s unwilling to let Blaine out of his sight? Why was he invited to the table, to Kurt’s office, to give input on Kurt’s own designs?

He’s so accustomed to being invisible; it doesn’t make any sense.

He has his orders, though, no matter how soft spoken. The Avox turns back and kneels at the edge of the tub to grab the bottle and shallow basin Kurt is holding out toward him. Kurt doesn’t have to give any further instructions for Blaine to understand his duties. He just leans back and closes his eyes while Blaine dips the basin into the water and carefully pours it to wet down Kurt’s hair.

The Avox is a little surprised Kurt’s hair hasn’t suffered noticeable damage after what has likely been years of treatments, colorings, and god knows what else to keep it in line with the Capitol’s ever changing style. But the chestnut locks with scattered blue highlights are soothing to the touch as Blaine begins to massage in a thick lather of shampoo.

It’s a tedious job, working to keep every drop of soapy water from sliding down Kurt’s face into his eyes. Somehow he manages. He can’t deny the relief that comes after he pours a fifth basinful of water and it runs clear, washing down Kurt’s neck and over his shoulders.

Kurt’s eyes are still closed in calm relaxation. Blaine stays perfectly still at his side, waiting and unsure. There’s a bar of soap and a white washcloth just visible around the edge of the shower curtain that’s pulled back and brushing his knee. Should he? Kurt hadn’t told him to, but he hadn’t explicitly said to wash his hair either.

The Avox takes a chance and plucks up the two items from the edge of the tub, making another wet lather with his hands. Kurt reacts to the quiet sounds, readjusting himself in the water and letting out a muted sigh.

Blaine clutches the washcloth two inches from Kurt’s bare shoulder. He’s staring again. There’s no way to avoid looking at Kurt’s body when he’s been charged to wash it. The hesitation drags on so long that Kurt turns his head and blinks, catching Blaine’s attention and catching him off guard. He feels an embarrassed, ashamed blush color his cheeks.

The corner of Kurt’s lips quirk up into a half grin. “Go ahead,” he says. “If I stay in here too much longer I’ll start to prune up. Wouldn’t want that.”

Blaine shakes his head to agree and presses the washcloth to Kurt’s skin. Shoulders are easy. There’s nothing particularly striking about a person’s shoulders—not usually, anyway. Maybe Kurt’s shoulders are a bit more striking than anyone else’s he’s ever seen, but Blaine tries his best not to dwell on it.

He moves down Kurt’s back, over his spine and shoulder blades. Kurt leans forward to help him reach. The Avox’s hand dips into the water, crisscrossing pale skin all the way down until his knuckles brush the floor of the tub and Blaine firmly ignores the jut of the man’s tailbone and the slight curve that begins beneath it.

It’s not like the Capitol cut off his dick, too. Blaine knows what arousal feels like, even if he’s only ever experienced it through waking up with an erection as the remnants of a sensual dream slip away. It had taken some time for him to put two and two together, puberty having hit him only after he’d arrived at the Capitol and no longer had the ability to ask why his body did the things it did, but eventually the dreams of bare skin and roving hands made sense.

Still, Blaine has never quite felt arousal toward another man. He has always been too busy, too preoccupied, too stuck in the haze of never-ending servitude. It’s only when he sleeps at night and the dreams come to him that Blaine is too vulnerable to deny his starved body the rush of blood.

Feeling heat and tension pool suddenly between his legs as he drags the washcloth down Kurt’s chest is shocking, to say the least. Blaine shifts his weight where he kneels, blinks hard a few times, and attempts to refocus. It’s enough to keep the arousal from progressing to anything noticeable, but there is nothing he can do to make it fade entirely.

When Kurt decides he’s clean enough, the Avox is quick to start the drain and even quicker to get to his feet. He grabs a plush towel and holds onto it while Kurt steps out, skin gleaming with water that tracks down in droplets onto the tile floor. Without being told Blaine dabs the soft fabric across Kurt’s neck and shoulders, runs it down his back, and lets himself stare for the briefest moment while his hands brush over the pale curves of Kurt’s ass.

Blaine runs the towel down Kurt’s front a moment later. He keeps his eyes up when his hands dip between Kurt’s legs, but nothing can stop him from feeling the outline of everything he touches. Kurt sucks in a breath, and Blaine’s eyes flit up to meet his gaze against his will.

Kurt's already staring back at him, has been for who knows how long. He licks his lips, and Blaine locks his legs and tenses up, doing anything he can to stop his body from feeling  _anything._ It’s all too much, too risky, too dangerous.

Thinking he’s found a brief solution, at least to end the searing eye contact, Blaine drops back to his knees and stares down to dry off Kurt’s feet and ankles. He works from the bottom up, calves, knees, thighs, and then Blaine realizes he should have thought his plan through a bit more when he comes to be at eye-level with Kurt’s cock, not entirely soft between his legs.

It gives a twitch of apparent interest. Blaine sees the muscles of Kurt’s abdomen tighten up in protest. He’s fighting the same battle.

But there’s a hand in Blaine’s curls now, brushing through his hair. It’s a slow, calculated move that almost seems contemplative. Blaine remains perfectly still, his lips parted, waiting.

As quickly as it had touched him, the hand is gone. Kurt’s whole body moves away with it. He barely has time to say, “You’re dismissed for the night,” before striding naked out into the hallway. Blaine hears his bedroom door close a second later.

He stays where he is for the longest time, staring at the monogram on the damp towel that’s hiding the obscene rise in his loose pants.

_K.H._

Whether he’s gone on official Stylist business or simply avoiding the apartment, Blaine doesn’t know, but Kurt is out most of the following day. Blaine can’t help but feel relieved.

He’s spent years in a haze, invisible to those around him, but something happened between them last night, and Blaine’s body has been on high alert ever since. It’s almost painful, like a wound left exposed to the elements. Kurt has defied Blaine’s destiny to be a specter. He doesn’t understand why.

The tributes’ final interviews don’t start until well after sundown. After a soft, slow-paced dinner he settles in to watch with the rest of Panem. Kurt’s tribute looks as wonderful as Blaine could hope for, and seeing his own design ideas incorporated into the outfit is surreal. The coloring is there, as well as the accents Blaine had agreed would suit the boy.

Kurt is sitting near the front of the crowd below the raised stage. The camera pans to him for a moment when his tribute takes a seat beside Caesar Flickerman, a graphic scrolling by with Kurt’s name, age, and an informational tidbit for the audience’s interest— _His first year as a Stylist; son of a Gamemaker in the 66 th Games. _Kurt looks into the lens and offers a friendly, close-lipped smile.

Blaine’s chest tightens. He looks away, feeling off balance.


	9. Chapter 9

The District is always restless the night before a Reaping. It’s no wonder that it takes longer than usual for the rest of his family to fall asleep. Blaine listens to them toss and turn for a few long hours, stifling yawns himself. Across the room his mother sighs into her pillow. He knows she’s afraid of what the morning will bring. Blaine’s birthday had come just a month ago, and for the first time his name will join the hundreds of others in the glass spheres. It’s been some time since she’s had to worry about losing a son; Cooper turned 18 two years ago.

Beside him, Cooper stirs, jostling their shared bed and whispering, “Still awake, Blainey?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t be scared,” he breathes. “It’ll be okay. Your name’s only in once.”

Blaine can just make out his face in the darkness. There’s a small, reassuring smile lifting the corners of his lips. He smiles back, leaning into Cooper’s hand when it emerges from underneath their wool blanket to ruffle his curls and give his cheek a playful pinch. Blaine bites down on his tongue to stifle a giggle, swatting his brother’s hand away.

“I'm not scared, Coop.”

“Good. Then get some sleep,” he murmurs. “You wanna look your best to show off those Anderson good looks for the cameras tomorrow. I know Panem’s been starving for more since I stopped showing up on their screens.”

Blaine rolls his eyes in the dark and snorts out a laugh. “M’kay.” He scoots close enough to kiss his brother’s cheek and immediately gets one in return before he rests his head back on his own pillow.

He isn’t scared right now. That much is the truth. But Cooper’s wrong. Blaine’s name isn’t going in just once.

He’d marched all the way to the square on his brief lunch break the day before, all the way to the Justice Building. Keeping his grubby hands in his pockets in an attempt to look more presentable, the short little boy had hoisted himself on his tip toes to speak to the woman behind the desk that ran the length of the massive room.

“I’m twelve now,” he’d announced as confidently as he could. “I want tesserae for my family. Blaine Anderson. For Pamela, Todd, and Cooper. My parents and my brother.”

He had secured the meager extra rations for his family, and in acting alone, had secured his family’s safety as well. When he was gone, the Peacekeepers would surely question them about his disappearance. But in the process it would reveal that they were truly clueless about Blaine’s taking of tesserae, proof that they hadn’t been in on their youngest’s plot.

He feels clever for devising it all on his own. But he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. In his plan, quickly developed in the last week alone, taking tesserae was only the first, and the simplest, step. Ahead of him lies a path of difficulties, and only once he successfully passes them all will he be able to look back and admire his success.

It takes another twenty minutes, but finally the other three occupants in the Anderson bedroom are taken in by sleep. Blaine listens closely to be sure. Cooper’s familiar deep breathing is a sure sign. Mom is completely silent in contrast to Dad’s infrequent snores.

As gently as he can, Blaine slips out from under the blanket and slides down to the floor, holding his breath until he no longer feels the straw mattress beneath him and he’s sure that his brother is still sound asleep. It takes only a minute for him to strip down and change, pulling on the only pair of jeans he owns that aren’t ripped or worn at the knees. He’s supposed to wear them to the Reaping tomorrow, showing off his wardrobe’s best like every other child. A thin cotton shirt he slips on over his head, then Blaine moves across the dusty wooden floor on silent bare feet.

He doesn't pause in the bedroom doorway to look back on his family’s sleeping forms. Even though he’s determined to see his plan through, he knows if he takes even a single moment to hesitate, he’ll crawl back into bed with his brother and lose his chance forever.

He doesn’t want to lay back down and go to sleep. If he does, the nightmare will come back—the image that’s haunted him for weeks and left him jerking awake and in tears that always took an eternity to quiet, even in Cooper’s comforting embrace. He doesn’t want to be Reaped again. He doesn’t want to become District 9’s male Tribute in his dreams. He doesn’t want to become District 9’s male Tribute tomorrow, either.

The 65th Hunger Games will carry on as they have since Blaine’s great grandparents were among those who lost the great Rebellion.

But Blaine will not be a part of it.

In the kitchen he grabs his school bag from where it hangs on the back of a chair, carefully pulls out his two books, writing and arithmetic, and sets them on the table. Even though it’s his own home, Blaine still feels like a thief when he raids the cupboards. He takes two loaves of bread, a jar of water, and tries his best not to feel guilty when he stuffs in the half-empty jar of peanut butter, too. They’d saved up for several weeks to afford its steep price and had rationed it just as carefully to make the rare treat last.

Blaine tosses the full bag over his left shoulder and bends down at the front door to tug on his socks and his shoes. When he straightens back up the house is silent. No one is going to stop him.

The hinges on the front door creak when he pulls it open, but he doesn’t need much space to slip through, so the disturbance is brief. Even in the middle of the night the June air is warm and dry when he steps outside. Blaine treks through the housing community at a brisk walk, cradling the bag under his arm to keep the contents from jostling.

He slips down a less-traveled route out of the tracts of identical buildings, taking the shortcut he and many of his classmates use to get to school on the three days a week they’re actually in session for a few hours. It’s the harvest; being in the fields is the priority. Winter is the time for education in District 9. Still, the route works just as well for slipping away from the living quarters without risking a Peacekeeper patrol near the main exit points.

The tricky work begins as soon as Blaine is out in the District proper. Each of the dirt roads in front of him is wider than his entire house, made to accommodate the large fleets of machinery that wind back and forth during peak working hours, churning up the dust that coats everything in and out of sight. The layout works well for their industry, but for a lone boy whose single goal is to remain undetected, the ground he has to cover here is incredibly daunting.

He does his best to stay in the darkest shadows, using the night and his small stature to his advantage. Beyond the schoolhouse on a hill, landmarks are few and far between until one makes it to the marketplace or the square—only a few dilapidated shacks and, in the distance, massive factories and storehouses of grain that Blaine knows are guarded overnight. He stays as far away from them as he can.

The roads remain thankfully deserted. Blaine jogs the last few yards into the market and takes a moment to catch his breath beneath an empty table. Nearby a convoy of Peacekeeper vehicles rumbles past, heading in toward the square. Blaine slips out as soon as the sound fades and presses on, knowing another patrol isn’t likely to follow for a period of time.

Before reaching the square he makes a sharp turn, intending to make his way around it from the outside. He leaps over a deep but narrow ditch and slips through a fence. Blaine is lucky. The barbed wire is so rusted its spikes have been weathered to dull knobs. As soon as he’s crossed, he eagerly takes to the field on the other side, putting three rows between him and the fence line as he starts to walk, knowing he’s headed in the general direction of the District’s main gate.

What he’ll do when he gets there… Well, he hasn’t quite figured it out. Blaine’s never seen the main gate. He can’t plan for something he’s never encountered. But he’s made it this far. He’ll think of something.

The walk is long, the night is hot, and in the grain there’s little breeze to cool him down. Sweat plasters Blaine’s curls to his forehead by the end of the first mile. He’s already contemplating stopping for a drink of the water in his bag, but the sound of an approaching vehicle coming down the road wipes the thought from his mind in an instant.

There’s only one; it isn’t a convoy. Only two to four Peacekeepers. It’s coming toward him from the front, heading away from the edge of the District and moving in. Blaine crouches down where he stands, watching the headlights illuminate the road as it rolls closer. His heart flutters in his chest. He sees them, three Peacekeepers in full gear, less than thirty feet away when their paths cross.

Blaine is on his feet as soon as the wheels are past him. He’s scared now. He runs through the narrow path between the swaying stalks. He runs, clutching his bag. He runs straight into a nest of quail, undetected in the dark at his feet. The birds scramble in terror and instantly take to the sky, wings batting near Blaine’s face and high-pitched calls of alarm sounding into the night. The commotion is sudden and unexpected, shattering his tense composure, and a frightened shout rips from his throat before Blaine can stop it.

He slaps a hand over his mouth. The last two birds race up and out of the field, angling out toward the open space over the fence like a beacon to Blaine’s whereabouts for anyone who sees them. Blaine doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t think. He listens.

He hears the vehicle’s wheels grind to a halt.

A muffled voice joins the idling motor, “Just birds.”

Blaine remains frozen, praying that they’ll move on. Suddenly a beam of light shoots through the stalks not ten steps ahead of him, casting long shadows and making everything else stand out in sharp relief. It’s the spotlight mounted on the back of the vehicle. They’re going to find him. The beam inches closer, creeping along the ground, and Blaine doesn’t have any room left in his panic-stricken mind to think. He bolts forward in the direction of the District’s edge, ankles catching the light as he dashes through it.

The glimpse is brief, but it’s all that’s needed to give him away. There are unintelligible shouts from the Peacekeeper’s vehicle. The engine roars, revving while the wheels make a sharp turn and speed back the way they just came. The spotlight is still on, but it’s not seeking him out. His noisy sprinting is more than enough to keep his location in check as he crashes through the wheat. He can’t afford to slow down.

“Stop running!” one of them orders.

A single bullet is fired, the crack echoing briefly. Blaine can’t tell if it’s just a warning or if they’re actually trying to shoot him. When he fails to halt, however, a second bullet goes off, and Blaine hears this one whistle through the air nearby. His lungs are burning. His entire chest screams in protest against every step, and although tears are blurring his vision, he can’t catch enough air to properly cry.

The vehicle is alongside him now. Blaine knows he can’t outrun them. But maybe he can outsmart them. He counts to three and pulls up to a sudden stop, changing his direction as fast as he can to put distance between him and the vehicle still rumbling down the road. It keeps driving. They haven’t noticed. Still too panicked to feel anything resembling relief, Blaine hurries out of the field, knowing it’s the first place they’ll start to look when they realize he’s disappeared again. Weaseling through the dull barbed wire a second time, he tumbles down six feet into the ditch beside the road and huddles in the muddy irrigation runoff. There’s a sharp chemical smell of fertilizer and pesticides down here, a fermenting stench that stings to inhale, but he can’t afford to be picky about the air now that he finally has a moment to catch his breath.

He counts to sixty once, twice, five times, marking off each minute by sticking out a finger on a trembling hand. It’s long enough for the Peacekeepers to be at a distance, but not so long that they’ll have roused too many reinforcements to assist in the search. Blaine doesn’t allow himself another second to hesitate when he staggers back onto his feet and turns again toward the west. He knows the border is there. If it was daylight he might even be able to see the fence looming in the distance.

Crouching low, Blaine settles into a jog. The mud cakes onto his shoes and weighs his feet down with every step he takes. Twice he slips and smears stains into his clothing. For twenty minutes he follows the snaking ditch and tries not to think of anything but the squelch of his feet pressing moisture out of the ground.

Running into the Peacekeepers again is unavoidable. Blaine hears them before he sees them, and already it’s more than just three voices.

“Where were they last?”

“Just past the road, in the field. Probably ran farther in.”

“Call in another squad from the square and fan everyone out to search. I want double guards on the fence line in ten minutes. We’re on lockdown. No shipments, in or out. No one leaves this District until I give clearance.”

“Understood.”

Blaine hardly dares to breathe as he continues forward, slowing down in an effort to quiet his footfalls. The ditch is deep enough to keep him hidden as long as no one is looking directly into it, and if they’re planning to search for him in the fields, their eyes should be scanning elsewhere. Blaine slips his bag around to rest against his back before he bends over as low as he can manage, using his hands to support his redistributed weight as he half-walks, half-crawls on his way. The mud on his body is almost a blessing now, helping him blend into the dark. Still, Blaine is so scared he wonders if liquid terror hasn’t replaced the blood in his veins.

All it takes to break his composure is the quickest blink of a flashlight beam six inches from his face. They aren’t even looking for him here; the light is moving across the ditch and out toward the road. But the shock of seeing it so close—too close—is enough to make him freeze up again. The contents of his bag shift with the sudden halt, the jar of water rattling.

“What was that?”

“Shh,” comes a sharp reply.

Then there are footsteps. And they’re coming closer.

Blaine doesn’t have another choice. He stands up straight and bolts with every last bit of energy he has left. Peacekeepers are instantly shouting after him, and now the flashlights are tracking through the ditch with purpose, casting shadows as the beams hit his heels and torso.

“Stop! You are commanded to _stop!”_

Blaine doesn’t obey.

He’s quick, but his adversaries are quicker. It takes only a minute before he’s surrounded. The hulking vehicles, several of them now, hurtle past on the road and turn their spotlights into his eyes so it’s impossible to see beyond the blinding white. Instinct is all he has left to guide him, and it isn’t enough to keep him from stumbling on uneven ground. He falls, trips over the strap of his bag, and fears for a moment that it’s all over. A gunshot goes off. The bullet zips past him and burrows with a sharp _thump_ into the ground not ten feet away.

Somehow he regains his footing, the strap of his bag tangled and hanging from the crook of his elbow. Blaine scrambles for the edge of the ditch. He can get back to the field, lose himself in the stalks. He’s smaller than they are. He can hide. Blaine makes a leap and digs his fingers into the soil, clawing for purchase. He’s vaguely aware of desperate whimpers bubbling from his throat, but there’s no value in being silent anymore. He just needs to get over the edge—why did he come down here? Why did he trap himself?

“Get on the ground!”

Blaine secures one fist around a root bed in the dirt wall. He locks on, struggles, and pulls himself upward, shoes useless in finding friction while they’re encased in layers of debris. His other hand grips the tall grass on the flat ground above him. Then a blistering pain blossoms across his shoulder as another gunshot tears through the night. He screams. The wall scrapes his arms as he slides and crumbles back into the mud.

There’s dirt in his mouth, on his face, thick beneath his nails. But there’s blood on his clothing, glinting scarlet in the converging flashlight beams, and Blaine screams again at the sight of it soaking into his sleeve. He doesn’t even care that the Peacekeepers are closing in. His shoulder is a concentrated center of white hot pain. A pair of boots hits the ground beside him, and a hand rips the bag from his arm, tossing it up to the others waiting overhead.

The Peacekeeper’s boot leaves the ground and presses down on his back. Blaine feels himself sink deeper into the mud. The chemical stink is so strong it burns his throat. He chokes, gasping for breath through sludge and snot and tears.

“Done running, kid?” the man hisses.

Blaine nods as best as he can. He doesn’t know if it’s discernable from the tremors wracking his body. All he knows is that there’s no point in heroics. He has nothing more to prove now that he’s failed, and all his twelve-year-old mind can hope for is that enough submission and groveling will ease the harshness of whatever punishment is surely coming to him.

They drag him out of the ditch like a sack of grain. When he hits the ground again, Blaine stays there, biting his tongue so hard he tastes blood. The pain hardly registers against the gunshot wound. He cranes his head to look at it, and a Peacekeeper has the mind to bend over him and give it a quick glance, too, flashlight exposing the torn flesh in such detail that Blaine retches. His skin is flayed and tattered like the sleeve of his blood-soaked shirt.

“Only grazed you,” the man grunts, stepping away. “Toughen up.”

A few yards away, his fate is being discussed.

“We’ve never had an attempted runaway. What message would it send if he just got a whipping? It’s not enough.”

“I’m sorry,” Blaine gasps into the dirt. No one seems to hear him.

“The penalty for non-attendance at a Reaping is death,” one of them reminds the others.

“Please,” he begs.

Another Peacekeeper snorts. “Yeah, and are you going to volunteer to blow his brains out in the square right before the Games? There’d be a riot. I’m not making this scrawny thing a martyr.”

“Fine.”

Blaine hears the shuffle of footsteps and swallows down a sob as a hand grips his muddy curls, yanking him up onto his knees. When he opens his eyes, there’s a pistol aimed at his forehead.

“We’ll do it here and be done with it.”

“Withdraw your weapon.” It’s the same commanding voice Blaine heard earlier giving orders. Someone of a higher rank than the others. “You’re lucky I’m not ordering _you_ to the whipping post for that,” he threatens. “I’ll contact the Capitol for protocol and further instructions.”

Blaine’s heart goes icy with dread. He’s taken into a Peacekeeper vehicle that rumbles the last mile to the District fence. Blaine finally gets to see it for himself as he’s shoved back onto the ground and held there at gunpoint. It’s taller than anything he’s ever seen, topped with wire so smooth Blaine knows intuitively that it’s razor sharp. He couldn’t have climbed over it or slipped through it. The only way in or out appears to be the heavily-barred, heavily-guarded gap in the fence line.

It hits Blaine with a deflating realization that he wouldn’t have made it out, even if he’d gotten this far, and he has a sudden, burning desire to be back under the blankets with Cooper, curled in close at his side.

“I wanna go home,” he says, looking helplessly to the pair of Peacekeepers watching him. “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up.”

Blaine clamps his hand over his bleeding shoulder and buries his face against his knees, silent and petrified.

Before sunrise, he’s in the belly of a Capitol hovercraft, sent to District 9 explicitly for him, which can’t mean anything good. He’s seen one or two flying hundreds of feet overhead in his brief lifetime, and he can’t say he’s ever felt a desire to get any closer. The trauma of being pulled from his home soil and hoisted onto a literal flying machine bound for god knows where had terrified him so completely that they’d shoved a needle in his arm. His tears and cries for his parents had both stopped abruptly when the world went black.

He’s not dead—yet. But he’s strapped to a chair with wide, belt-like restraints, alone in a circular room so bright it makes his eyes water for ten minutes before they adjust. His shoulder’s been cleaned and bandaged while he’s been out, though the rest of his body is still coated in alternating layers of thick and thin grime. He feels sticky, pesticide odors still clinging to his skin and clothing.

Blaine closes his eyes, tries to relax. Nothing slows the pounding of his heart. This is bad. He knows it. He’s done something so bad that the Peacekeepers, men who smile at the sound of a cracking whip and whom Blaine thought never ran out of ideas to cause harm, didn’t even have an adequate punishment to give him. The Capitol itself has intervened. This is definitely bad.

Soon his family will wake up, if they haven’t already. They’ll discover him gone. For a moment, selfish guilt sends a stab of pain through his chest that’s even worse than his throbbing shoulder.

A silver door at the end of the room slides open. Blaine’s eyes do, too. He stares as three people enter. Their appearances are so distorted it’s hard to tell if they’re men or women. One of them has a face completely covered in tattoos, colorful and disorienting. Another’s hair is shaved into intricate designs against a skull with unnatural ridges beneath the skin. The third has no eyebrows beneath their forehead. Blaine would laugh if he wasn’t so frightened by the way they advance on him with blank, serious faces.

“P-Please,” he asks. “What’s going on?”

From behind him, out of his sight, they roll a metal table toward the chair where he’s forcibly reclined. Its surface is covered in various instruments that make his body numb to look at. A knife, the most obvious and recognizable, sits alongside things with various handles, grips, and heads—things made for grabbing and pulling, for latching on.

One of them fastens another strap over his forehead, pulling it so tight he feels the pressure sparking a headache almost instantaneously. He’s immobilized and powerless. He’s trembling again.

“Please,” he tries a second time. “I don’t understand what’s go- _mmph!”_

A kindless hand grips his lower jaw, palm pressing down on his teeth to pry his mouth open wider. There’s a bitter taste to the gloved fingers that follow, pushing a sloped, V-shaped piece of hard plastic that slots against his teeth and the roof of his mouth. It forces his jaw to remain in a wide gape. Blaine coughs as saliva pools near his throat, struggling to swallow against open air.

One of his tormentors takes a step back, standing in full view. A piece of paper is retrieved from a pocket, held up to the light.

“When the nation of Panem suffered the devastating effects of the Rebellion,” she reads, “certain precautions were put in place to ensure the prevention of another such costly act of defiance. The Hunger Games were created as an annual reminder for the Districts of the unneeded sacrifices made by all who acted in treason.”

Blaine sucks in a noisy breath. The Games. Has he been somehow automatically qualified as a Tribute for daring to run away from home? Has his fear of being Reaped actually thrust him into the Games as punishment?

“However, the Games are not always enough to discourage those who hold toxic natures in their heart. The Capitol had to create a more lasting reminder of sacrifice for those individuals who committed treasonous crimes in our post-war society, to remind them that rebellion will not be tolerated.”

Blaine can hardly hear her over the blood rushing in his ears. It doesn’t help, either, that the speech’s vocabulary is leaps and bounds over Blaine’s own, making the words difficult to follow.

“The notion of the Avox was quickly conceived, and after years of successful practice, has been deemed an effective solution for curbing treasonous minds and removing their harmful influence from those who would suffer most greatly from the spark of another rebellion.”

Though she speaks to Blaine directly, the woman never meets his eyes. He hears the other two Capitol-born attendants grabbing instruments from the table. They scrape across the surface with a chilling sound.

“You have been branded a traitor of the Capitol for committing an act of treason against Panem. In gratefulness for your life, which has been spared by our nation’s benevolence, you will repay with a life of service in the Capitol. And to remind you of your crimes unspeakable, you will take a vow of silence from this day forward.”

He has questions, panicked questions and a need for clarification. He doesn’t understand. The paper returns to the woman’s pocket; Blaine mumbles around the device in his mouth, tears squeezing out from the corners of his eyes and tracing a path through the dust on his skin. But there isn’t even a moment of time to process the information that has just been shared with him.

The tools in gloved hands are brandished, suddenly in his face, in his mouth. Cold metal clenches around the base of his tongue. His whole mouth seizes in an agonizing cramp as the organ is tugged forward with steady pressure, stretching tendons Blaine never knew he had.

Outside of his mouth, a needle’s pinprick stings near the base of his throat. There’s an instant numbing sensation. Then a knife flashes past his eyes. He feels the tip press to his skin, feels it split, but the pain is minor. One attendant is still at his head, hand gripping his tongue. The other two are looming over his neck. There’s another bit of pressure-almost-pain, deeper than the first, and it hurts. Blaine feels his body jerk in instinctual panic as his next breath rattles and burns. He feels like he’s choking. There’s more pressure. It’s inside his throat.

He can breathe again. The air moving through his lungs hisses in and out through the tube that Blaine can feel now, secured against his skin with an adhesive. He’s breathing through a hole in his neck. The thought makes him dizzy. Hitching sobs become an entirely new experience, stopping halfway up his windpipe.

His mind is full of static confusion and panic that’s so overwhelming Blaine hardly reacts when he sees another blade, smaller, gripped in a hand nearing his mouth. He cannot feel fear any more acutely than he already is. Still, he tries to scream. It wheezes out of him like the airy bleats of dying goats slaughtered at the marketplace on hot afternoons.

There’s a foreboding pressure building against the back of his tongue. No needle is pierced into it to provide a numbing sensation. Everything is clear. When the sudden pain comes, it seems to encompass his entire skull. Blaine’s vision whites out in the face of it. He tastes copper as blood begins pooling in his mouth, and he wheezes and chokes despite the tube that’s allowing him to breathe unhindered. Thrashing does nothing against the restraints that refuse to give.

He’d taken a dozen more bullets from the Peacekeeper’s gun. He’d gladly suffer the most gruesome death a tribute has ever faced in the arena. Anything over this. His stomach churns at the acrid taste and churns even more when the taste disappears entirely, severed nerves stealing a basic sense.

His entire world is agony. Blaine gasps once, twice, feels a distinct emptiness between his teeth as the hands withdraw, and sinks with a rush into a black oblivion.


	10. Chapter 10

Kurt gets up so early the morning after the interviews that Blaine wonders if he’s been tossing and turning all night, too. The Avox hears the familiar footsteps in the hallway well before 7 AM. He listens closely and the shuffling fades without pausing in the bathroom. For some reason Kurt is skipping his usual shower. Alarmed, Blaine scrambles from his own bed and yanks on his uniform in a rush to get to the kitchen. He’s late. Kurt hadn’t told him he’d be getting up before dawn, but he’s still late.

By the time he appears in the kitchen Kurt’s already halfway through a cup of yogurt from the fridge, with a jar of instant coffee sitting on the granite countertop and a mug of water whirling away in the microwave. Blaine looks to Kurt for directions, puzzled. He’s leaning against the kitchen island, fully dressed and prepared to go out.

“Don’t worry about breakfast,” he says after swallowing his current bite. “I have to get going; the tributes are heading into the arena in two hours. I’m required to be there.”

Blaine stands in the middle of the floor, unmoving. He’d forgotten what day it was.

Across the room the microwave lets out a demanding beep. It pulls Blaine into action, though he’s sluggish to retrieve the steaming coffee mug and even slower to pick up the small jar to read the instructions on the label. He pours in the measured amount of “instant” coffee grounds and stirs them in. The spoon scrapes against the ceramic, building up a tiny whirlpool in the center of the liquid. His stomach is churning, too. Today he’ll have to watch children die again. Not even an Avox has immunity from viewing the horror of the Games. The Capitol makes them watch, too, whenever they aren’t working.

“I’ll be back this afternoon,” Kurt tells him, walking over to grab the mug even though there are still a few tiny grounds bobbing at the top. He takes a sip and grimaces but seems resigned to the lackluster source of this morning’s caffeine. Blaine rinses the spoon off in the sink and sets it in the drying rack while Kurt’s voice continues on in the background, “I’d like lunch prepared by the time I return. Something simple is fine. Pasta primavera, if you can find the right ingredients?”

Blaine nods vaguely. If he doesn’t have the exact recipe he’s sure he can work around it or make something similar enough to please Kurt’s appetite.

“Okay.” It’s not any comfort, but Blaine notices that Kurt seems a little out of sorts, too. They’re both on edge about what’s to come. “I’ll be back.”

Blaine faces him, nods. Kurt holds his gaze for a few seconds before turning on his heel and heading out with the inadequate mug of coffee clutched in his hands. When the front door opens Blaine hears a car idling out at the curb to pick the Stylist up. The silence of the apartment when he leaves is deafening, heavier than usual.

He uses the rare free time as an excuse to shower, hoping the hot water might help relax him. With Kurt gone he feels less self-conscious about taking his time. He ignores his internal clock, always shouting at him to _hurry, faster, there are things to be done_ , and lets the steam billow around him and fill his lungs.

The water tracks down his skin, over the scars on his back and shoulder. Blaine rolls the bar of soap in his hands to build up a supply of lather. He never uses Kurt’s washcloth, afraid that he’d somehow know if Blaine did and that he would be repulsed by it. Instead Blaine spreads his palms over his body, reaching every inch he can. He has to strain to get his fingertips into the middle of his back, but the stretch feels like a blessing to tight muscles. A soft groan bubbles in his throat.

By the time he finishes showering, takes his time drying off, and slips back into his clothes, nearly an hour has gone by. He’s certain that Caesar is already on television with plenty of pre-Games commentary, recaps of Reaping footage, and training scores. Blaine has no interest in tuning in until he has to, though. Instead he heads back to the kitchen and begins to sift through the cupboards, setting out ingredients for Kurt’s lunch.

They have plenty of pasta, a fresh green bell pepper, and bags of broccoli florets and green peas stored in the freezer. He grabs the tomato in the fruit basket to add a little color variety and pulls out a pot, skillet, and cutting board to set aside. After weeks of working in this space, it’s become intimately familiar to Blaine. He feels comfortable here, performing one task he knows he’s good at. Cooking is something solitary and stimulating to his often dull world. And his nose picks up where his thousands of missing taste buds leave off, allowing him to enjoy preparing meals even if eating them is often a complex chore.

When the time comes, Blaine doesn’t have to worry about turning on the broadcast. The television sets activate on their own and automatically project the Games feed onscreen. Suddenly the apartment is filled with Caesar Flickerman’s voice, eagerly announcing there are two minutes until the Games begin.

_“The tributes will be entering in the arena at any moment. Let’s take a closer look.”_

Blaine reluctantly backs away from the kitchen counter and walks into the den, where the largest screen in Kurt’s apartment is tucked into a massive shelving unit. The camera cuts from the commentator’s desk and pans into the arena, giving the audience their first glimpse at the Cornucopia and the environment surrounding it. With plenty of trees and foliage, this year’s arena looks friendlier than others Blaine has seen in the past, but he knows better than to assume that the surrounding forests aren’t filled with their own perils.

The underground plates are rising up now and bringing the tributes into view. Close-ups show them squinting as their eyes adjust to the light. Their expressions vary from terrified to bloodthirsty; some are already crouched and prepared to run as the final countdown begins. Blaine sees the girl from the train poised on her dais, and he prays that she’ll be smart enough to turn and run. He wishes he were there to take her hands again, though she’s probably forgotten all about him by now.

The countdown ends. The 24 tributes bolt, some racing forward to the bounty scattered around the mouth of the great metal structure. A few immediately take to the woods without supplies. There’s a canon blast within the first ten seconds. The cameras barely move fast enough to catch the last blood splatter from the deep gash in a boy’s throat.

In the next few moments the _booms_ are so frequent it sounds like a rumble of thunder. Already the Gamemakers are working in an altered timeline as they disrupt the current view to play each death in succession, one at a time, even in slow motion if the occasion calls for it, to bring focus to a knife hurtling through the air into a child’s back before he coughs up blood into the face of the tribute Blaine recognizes as the so-called Girl on Fire. It’s the boy from Blaine’s District. He’s dead.

Blaine grips the edge of the couch beside him, feeling the color drain from his face. A girl is run through with a spear. The camera cuts to a hulking tribute in the mouth of the Cornucopia, slashing into another young boy who’s scrambling to get away on his hands and knees. Then the camera is back on real-time as the body count of the Bloodbath seems to reach its ceiling.

But it’s not over yet. The girl from District 9 is racing back out of the tree line toward the Cornucopia. She’s been hiding and apparently seems to think the danger is over for now. She doesn’t see the killer closing in on her until it’s too late and she’s wrapped up in a pair of strong arms that close in a vice around her throat. Blaine watches the bicep flex against her neck, crushing a fragile windpipe. There’s a sharp twist and audible crack relayed over the speakers. Her terror-stricken eyes turn glassy, and a twelfth canon blast echoes as her body hits the ground.

The rest of the tributes have dispersed into the woods. Those who haven’t are gathered at the Cornucopia and are in the middle of tense negotiations, weapons still drawn. Blaine hears their words as they talk of an alliance, but it all sounds like static noise. Even though he’s had nothing to eat since he woke up, he feels dangerously nauseous. Less than two full minutes have passed and both of the tributes from his home are dead.

Somehow he finds himself in the kitchen without much recollection of the walk back through the hallway. The Games can still be heard from the other room, but he refuses to watch the immediate Bloodbath recap as each tribute is briefly named, along with their killer, for those in the Capitol who are keeping score and placing bets.

Blaine slices into the pepper on the cutting board, tossing the core and seeds into the garbage bin before he makes dozens of julienne cuts with a trembling hand. His work is sloppier than usual, but it’s nothing that some quick dicing won’t hide. The knife halves the tomato with a single swift motion. Ripe, red juice pools on the wood. He sees a gaping wound on a young body in his mind’s eye. Phantom pain spikes in his shoulder as he remembers his own blood seeping into the earth of District 9.

He makes another cut, determined to push through. The tributes from his District stare back at him from his own memories, once bright eyes veiled in death. The knife slips, narrowly missing his thumb, and Blaine drops it to the floor without a second thought, abandoning his work when the mounting hysteria starts building a lump in his throat.

He retreats to the bedroom on instinct, but even there he can’t escape the Games. They’re playing on the television sitting atop the dresser, too. It’s only the third time this screen has ever been on since Blaine took up temporary residence here, each occasion being an automatic Capitol broadcast beyond his control. Blaine’s never used enough entertainment-based technology to know how to make it stop. He doesn’t think he’d be allowed to even if he did. Blaine covers his ears and sinks down in the far corner of the room, leaning back against the side of the bed in an attempt to block out the world around him.

Just a few minutes to catch his breath and calm his mind. That’s all he needs. Then he’ll get back to his work.

But when the tears finally come, they’re incapacitating. It’s all he can do to just to breathe in their wake. The passage of time blurs, but even so, he knows it’s far too early when the bedroom door opens and Kurt pauses on the threshold.

Blaine knows there must be parties for him to attend, places he’s invited to go to celebrate the successful launch of another Games, to have a few drinks before trudging home for a hot meal. But he’s here already. Instead of gallivanting off to pat himself and his colleagues on the back for a job well done, he’s standing in the doorway, looking down at Blaine with his jaw hanging half open. For once, Kurt seems to be the one who's speechless. Blaine isn’t surprised by his shock; Avoxes aren’t meant to express emotion.

“What’s wrong?” asks Kurt.

There’s genuine concern in his voice, and Blaine’s hands are moving before he can stop himself: EVERYONE DEAD.

Kurt is staring, shaking his head with utter confusion on his face. Blaine signs again though he knows it’s meaningless. Not even all Avoxes know the signs that are passed on in secret. It takes free time and privacy to share and learn, both of which are luxuries rarely found in the world of a Capitol servant. Blaine has only mastered a limited vocabulary over the years, picking up whatever he could in communal showers and crowded sleeping units.

“What’s wrong?” Kurt asks again. “I don’t-” He gestures at Blaine’s hands. He seems to know there’s a significance that he can’t decipher. “I don’t understand.”

Blaine points to the screen where the Games are still being broadcast, an emphatic, accusing finger underscoring the tears on his blotchy red face. Realization dawns over Kurt’s expression. He moves further into the room and grapples with the back of the television until he yanks the wireless power receiver from its nook and the image blacks out. Kurt chucks the hardware into an empty dresser drawer and leaves the room without a word.

God, he’s in trouble, isn’t he? Blaine feels fresh tears welling up in his eyes.

Kurt told him to prepare lunch, and instead he’s curled up like some wounded animal in a bedroom that isn’t really his. He supposes it doesn’t matter now. Kurt’s tribute is dead. His Stylist duties are finished. Blaine will be returned to the Capitol system any day now, shipped wherever his labor is needed in the city. Failing to make Kurt’s pasta primavera won’t matter then, except for a few bruises he might receive if Kurt chooses to report the incident.

He simply doesn’t have the energy to get up, and for once he doesn’t care if he gets beaten or chastised. He wants to go home. He wants to be with his family. He wants to feel like a person again.

Through his peripheral vision Blaine sees when Kurt steps back through the doorway. He advances on him, and Blaine recoils when he gets too close, putting a hand near his face. Maybe Kurt wants to strike the disobedient Avox himself. Blaine closes his eyes and waits for the blow. He knows he’s earned it.

Something soft presses against his cheek. It slides into the corners of each of his eyes and down the bridge of his nose. Blaine feels the tear tracks disappearing, dabbed away. When the same soft texture covers his nostrils, Blaine tenses up and pulls in a loud breath through his mouth like he’s afraid of being smothered.

“Blow out through your nose,” Kurt tells him. His voice is soft and closer than Blaine’s ever heard it. He obeys, wincing through the wet sensation and sickly sound. When Kurt’s hand pulls back Blaine can breathe easier.

Something else touches his cheek, warm and real. It’s Kurt’s hand, turning his head. Blaine’s scared to open his eyes.

“Look at me.”

Around the blue, Kurt's eyes are red, too. Blaine's not the only one who's shed tears this morning.

He feels Kurt’s thumb shift, move, sliding back and forth against his skin. It’s completely foreign and that makes it terrifying, but Blaine still finds himself leaning into the touch. Kurt shuffles closer on his knees and slides his other arm around Blaine’s back, putting pressure there to bring him forward. He stiffens up in response, feeling his heart thunder far too quickly against his ribs.

Kurt doesn’t seem swayed by Blaine’s reaction, though. Even when the Avox refuses to move, Kurt only slides closer. He rubs Blaine’s back and continues stroking his cheek until Blaine’s crying again and he doesn’t know why.

“Shh,” Kurt whispers, “come here.”

When his hands try to bring him close a second time, Blaine folds. He doesn’t reach out in return. He offers Kurt nothing and keeps his hands balled into fists in his lap, but he lets Kurt guide him until his head is on the other man’s chest. One arm wraps secure around his back. The other pets into Blaine’s curls. It’s what Mom used to do when he was just a boy.

He’s tucked there for a long time before Kurt speaks again.

“Your mother told me to look after you. That day in District 9.”

Blaine sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth. Though he’s done a valiant job keeping them at bay in the last week, there’s no way to stop the flood of memories from returning as soon as the words leave Kurt’s lips. The images are fresh. He can still feel the embrace and hear his brother’s voice. They’re the best memories Blaine’s had in nearly a decade, but it doesn’t change the fact that they’re far too dangerous to dwell on. His mind needs to be clear at all times, prepped for any task.

“I couldn’t promise her that,” Kurt says. When he sighs, Blaine feels the warm air against his ear. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t understand why Kurt is apologizing. He thinks that maybe Kurt isn’t entirely sure, either, because as soon as the words are said, he’s pulling back and relieving Blaine from the one-way embrace.

“Take the day off. Please. Don’t worry about the food.”

Blaine looks up, making eye contact for several long seconds before he remembers he isn’t allowed to. No one has ever given him a day off. Sure, there have been days when he hasn’t worked—like the week he spent ill and bedridden after a grueling four days working outside in the middle of winter, shoveling snow on the Capitol’s sidewalks until his shoes were soaked and his fingers were blue—but no one has ever told him to stop working before.

“Here,” Kurt says finally. He pushes the box of tissues closer. “If you need any more.”

Then Kurt’s back on his feet and stepping quietly out of the room. Blaine stares after him for an entire minute, watching the empty doorway with too many questions and too many feelings to process in a mind that is so accustomed to an autopilot routine.

He only manages to ‘take the day off’ for another ten minutes before he’s wandering back into the kitchen with a handwritten note from the pencil and pad still stuffed in the bedside table drawer. Blaine goes up to Kurt, busy at the stove trying to salvage the unfinished preparations, and hesitantly pulls the wooden spoon from his hand, offering him the slip of paper in return.

_Thank you for the time off. But I could use the distraction._

He gnaws on his lower lip as Kurt reads it over, feeling anxious despite the kindness Kurt had displayed not half an hour before. Fear is a difficult thing to unlearn, and even now Blaine worries that trying to return to work after Kurt explicitly told him not to is a terribly disobedient thing to do.

Kurt nods, though, and steps aside with the tiniest hint of a smile on his features. Blaine bows his head briefly and takes his place back at the stovetop, just in time to pour the pasta Kurt has already pre-measured into the water as it begins to boil. He stirs it gently. Kurt stays at his side, and Blaine doesn’t flinch away when he feels a hand come up to rub circles between his shoulder blades. It feels nice.

Over the bubbling water he can barely register the sound of the Games, still playing out in the den. It’s only background noise, inconsequential to the warmth of Kurt’s proximity.

Blaine takes a steadying breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and feedback are very appreciated! One more chapter to go, coming up this Thursday!


	11. Chapter 11

“They’ll be picking you up tomorrow,” Kurt says over a late breakfast. They had both slept in after the long, exhausting day before. Kurt feels rested from the extra sleep but restless in the wake of the Avox’s imminent departure. “I got the call this morning.”

Blaine nods. Kurt can tell he’s trying his best to appear unaffected by the news they both knew was coming, but his movement is disrupted by a prominent tremor in his hand as he reaches across the table to grab an empty serving dish. Compared to his usual fluidity, that single twitch is enough to tell Kurt that Blaine’s emotions aren’t as composed as they appear to be.

His eyes are still a little bloodshot, which isn’t too surprising. The first tearful breakdown he’d had after the Bloodbath was not the only time Blaine had cried in the last 18 hours. Kurt had held him again later that night during the broadcast when the images of the dead Tributes’ faces had been illuminated in the arena’s dark sky with Panem’s anthem playing solemnly—mockingly?—in the background.

Things aren’t quite as awkward as Kurt had expected them to be in the light of a new day, however. Blaine is still performing all of his duties to a tee, and Kurt is still in the position of power, on the receiving end of the Avox’s labors. The fact that he’d pulled the crestfallen man into his arms the day before seems more like a footnote than a shocking breach of protocol. It just happened.

Kurt doesn’t regret it.

When Blaine finishes washing up in the kitchen, Kurt calls him into the den where he’s seated on the couch. He comes quickly, face attentive and ready to receive instructions.

“Come here and sit by me,” he invites, patting the seat beside him. Blaine does as he’s told, cautiously leaning back into the couch cushions. He looks like he hasn’t relaxed in years, like he doesn’t know how to make his body switch off the setting that makes him alert and ready to leap to his feet at a moment’s notice. Blaine eyes the black screen of the television warily.

“Don’t worry. We’re not watching the Games.”

His shoulders sag as a fraction of tension leaves him. Kurt grabs the remote and hits the power button, immediately changing the channel when the television defaults to the Games broadcast. He knows there will be limited programming offered until the Games’ conclusion. The Capitol always sanctions the networks during this time to ensure as many viewers as possible are tuning in and engaging with the nation’s most important annual event. The Games have no power without an audience, after all.

Once the arena has been replaced with a children’s cartoon, Kurt holds the remote out to Blaine, who stares down at it like he’s being offered a live, poisonous snake.

“You can choose,” Kurt tells him, nodding his head encouragingly. He points, “You change the channels with this button, up or down. There isn’t much on right now, but maybe you can find something you like?”

“Why.”

Kurt jumps when Blaine speaks. The man’s voice is soft. The long  _I_  sound at the end of the syllable is a bit lost without a tongue to help enunciate, and there’s no inflection or lift to his tone, but Kurt understands the one-word question perfectly. Still, it’s the last thing he’s expecting, and it takes him a moment to concentrate on a reply. Blaine’s eyes are on the floor immediately; Kurt can almost hear the man’s conscience scolding himself for making a sound.

“I just wanted you to feel okay today, before you go.” Kurt doesn’t quite know how to answer. He doesn’t really even know  _why_  he’s doing this himself. Why should he care? He shouldn’t, by all rules and regulations and cultural ideals. Yet he does. He cares.

“You deserve a little happiness.”

Blaine shakes his head no.

“You do.” Kurt sets the remote in Blaine’s lap. “Go on. At least give it a try.”

Blaine doesn’t seem convinced by any stretch of the imagination, but he picks up the remote anyway, staring down at the buttons for a long moment before pushing on the channel navigator. He flips through all twelve currently-available programs then goes through them again, and a third time. Finally he stops and rests the remote back on his thigh. Kurt looks away from his vague expression, always so hard to read, and turns to see what he’s chosen.

It’s a film of classic Panem propaganda. Kurt has seen clips like these before, growing up. Videos explaining “the natural order of things” are fed to Capitol children from a young age, priming them to feel perfectly settled in their privilege while other citizens of Panem are left on the outskirts and killed once a year in a gallant spectacle. Kurt, too, had learned that he somehow deserved this luxury for being nothing other than born within the Capitol’s walls. By the same argument, Blaine had deserved to live in squalor simply by virtue of being conceived to parents within the perimeter fence of District 9.

The concept had made sense to Kurt before. Now, as if things have somehow changed, it seems obviously shaky, rooted in a foundation that’s artificial at best.

Though Capitol propaganda seems like an odd entertainment choice, Kurt immediately understands why this channel had been the one to capture the Avox’s attention. The short film,  _Bread of Life: Panem’s Grain District,_  is an educational documentary designed to show a transparent look at one area of the nation’s food sourcing. Kurt imagines there are matching films for Districts 10 and 11 as well, livestock and agriculture.

While Kurt doubts the smooth-toned narrator or background music hold much interest for Blaine, the camera’s idyllic landscape shots of rolling amber fields on a sunny day must be powerful images. The film walks the viewer through the entire process of sowing, growing, and harvesting the massive grain supplies that not only provide for the Capitol, but the District rations and surplus tesserae as well.

Footage of smiling workers, often waving at the camera, are interspersed between the clips of heavy machinery. Kurt swallows down the strange guilt that bubbles up in his gut as he remembers the people he saw in District 9. None of them were smiling, and they looked nothing like these clean, healthy actor portrayals. Now that he’s been there himself, it’s impossible to miss the documentary’s entire lack of Peacekeepers patrolling and on constant watch. The images on his screen are censored and polished for the Capitol audience. When the District square is panned by, Kurt sees that the whipping posts have been digitally removed.

The film cuts to a scene of children pouring out of a schoolhouse on a hill and chasing one another, laughing, through an open gate to the edge of a grain field. Kurt sees Blaine shift out of the corner of his eye, leaning forward in his seat.

 _“Even the youngest citizens of District 9 are eager to help with the worthy occupation of feeding Panem,”_ the narrator explains.

Blaine sticks out a finger and lets out a wordless grunt when the children are shown tying cut stalks together with twine and tossing them into the back of vehicles headed for storehouses where the narrator informs that they will dry for a week before further processing.

“Is that what you did back home?” Kurt guesses.

A nod, yes.

They watch the documentary until the very end, even sitting through the less-interesting camera shots of “wheat berries” being carried along conveyor belts to either be turned into bread or poured into bags at the end of the line for storage. The film closes on a shot of the sunset as workers return to their housing units, which also look noticeably larger and more upscale on screen than the homes Kurt had seen, crowded and crammed together on a dusty plot of land.

Patriotic music blares. The Capitol seal stands out, gold on a black background, as the familiar disembodied voice declares, [“This is Capitol TV](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BdjcMXOIqLc).”

Following immediately after is a current recap of Games statistics and a reminder of the 24/7 broadcast on Channel 1. Then another documentary begins:  _Rags to Riches: Panem’s Textile District_. Blaine hands the remote back over to Kurt, who hits the power button and lets the screen go black.

The rest of the day is spent in a strange kind of almost-companionship. Instead of Blaine spending the long hours between meal preparations in the guest bedroom, Kurt invites him back into his home office to look over his portfolio of design ideas that he hasn’t had the time to make into reality. He has far more sketches than he does completed work.

Blaine looks through them all, turning the pages with care, one by one, while Kurt sorts all of his Games-related material and gathers it together for a separate portfolio. He can’t help but feel a pang in his chest when he rediscovers the small note where he’d jotted down the first measurements of the boy he’d spent hours working to clothe. There is no real reason to keep it now; there will be no post-Games interviews or Victory Tours for him. Kurt doesn’t need to design for a dead boy.

He doesn’t have the heart to throw the slip of paper away, though. Kurt sighs, tucks it in alongside his progression of sketches and notes. All of the material makes a surprisingly thick folder for less than a month of work. When it’s safely stored on his shelf of other archives, Kurt rolls his chair over towards Blaine’s, looking on with him at all the sketches that might fill his future days. He still has promising work ahead of him.

Kurt wonders if Blaine ever thinks about his own future. He can’t imagine what it must be like, to know that service is all there is and all there will ever be. Eight years ago in the Training Center when he’d seen that terrified boy, Kurt hadn’t truly understood how much he had to cry for. Blaine has lost everything. His childhood, home, family. Even his identity is of no consequence to anyone but those who remember him back home, and now to Kurt, who has been lucky enough to learn his name and to see the man behind the stoic mask, though he remains largely a mystery.

Tomorrow he’ll be gone, back to work somewhere in the massive urban landscape that is nothing like his home. Kurt knows better than to assume that lightning will strike  _three_ times and bring them back together.

For some reason, that thought is a painful one.

That evening, after the dinner plates are cleaned and cleared away, after Blaine has had his own time to eat in privacy, Kurt knocks on the door of the guest bedroom and comes inside, holding out a small offering, which Blaine stands up to take.

“I wasn’t even sure if I should give this to you,” Kurt tells him. “And I don’t know if you want to keep it; I’m sure it would be risky. But it’s yours, if you want it. It’s the only copy. I deleted the original file after making this print. It’s- It isn’t something that anyone but you deserves to see.”

It’s just a wallet-sized photo, easier to hide than an 5x7. It doesn’t need to be very large, though, for the focus of the image to be clear. Blaine’s embrace of his mother and brother, his return home after years of being apart, is a moment captured for eternity. Blaine looks up from the picture, staring at Kurt in shock.

“I had my camera with me that day,” Kurt explains, feeling self-conscious. He can’t tell how Blaine is feeling. Kurt had known there was a chance that Blaine would be more upset by the gift than grateful, but it’s a chance Kurt felt he had to take.

Blaine’s watery eyes are hard to decipher. Even though his brows are dark and thick, they appear frozen in place, refusing to tilt at any angle to give Kurt a clue. He’s about to open his mouth again to speak when the smile finally appears and fills Kurt with relief. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Blaine is smiling at him.

Kurt smiles back. He can’t help it.

The Avox steps over toward the nightstand and sets the picture down, propped up against the face of the digital clock. He stares at it for a long moment before turning back around, lifting a flat hand to his chin and bringing it forward and back down as though making a motion to Kurt. He recognizes it as another one of those mysterious, meaningful gestures that seem like a language of their own. This time Kurt doesn’t have to ask for clarification to know what it means.

“You’re welcome,” he replies. “I just wanted to give you something. Anything I could to help you remember.”

Blaine tilts his head to the side in confusion.  _Remember what?_  he seems to be asking.

It’s scary to answer him. The words on lips are treason.

“You’re worth a lot more than what the Capitol tells you. I never realized how much strength it must take for an Avox to bear a life like this. How brave you must be to carry on every day.” Kurt looks him in the eyes. “You’re still a person, Blaine—an intelligent, strong, beautiful person. No Capitol law can ever take that from you.”

Blaine’s face seems to briefly transform. It’s only for a moment, but the blank stare fades away, leaving an expressive, touched young man in its wake. Knowing that Blaine is receptive to his words is all it takes to make Kurt continue.

“You have been with me for just three weeks, yet somehow you’ve changed the way I look at things. The way I see the world. It’s... terrifying, honestly. But it's remarkable, too.”

Blaine blinks at him. It’s the easiest eye contact they’ve ever shared.

“You matter,” Kurt implores, “and I don’t want you to forget that." He gestures toward the photo on the nightstand. "Giving you this is the least I can do. That’s all.”

When he’s finished, Kurt turns toward the door to leave. He’s said what he needs to, and Blaine has listened. Whether he is able to take it to heart or not is beyond his control, but Kurt needs to leave the room before he lets his emotions push him any further.

A hand reaches out to stop him after only three steps. Blaine’s palm is on his shoulder. It’s the first time he’s ever initiated contact with Kurt on his own, and when Kurt takes in the anxious expression on the Avox’s face, he can’t help but wonder when the last time was that Blaine initiated contact with anyone aside from the reunion in the photo across the room.

Blaine moves in closer, until they’re face to face. The hand on Kurt’s shoulder is rigid and frozen, but Blaine’s free hand presses against Kurt’s chest in a single fluid motion, full of intent. His fingers curl into a fist against the fabric and clutch on tight. Kurt’s skin warms beneath his shirt. His heartbeat picks up speed behind his ribs.

“Kiss me.”

The words slip out before Kurt can stop them, and Blaine’s eyes go impossibly wide. Kurt feels himself blushing, heat rising up his neck. He doesn’t know how Blaine is going to respond, and the sudden vulnerability of the situation sends him into a brief spiral of doubt. What are they, really, but two strangers thrown together and forbidden to interact? Yet here he is, telling an Avox to kiss him.  _Telling_ him to.

“That’s not a command. I- I’m asking. If you would. If you want to.”

Blaine’s staring at his lips.

“Just once,” whispers Kurt.

He hears Blaine suck in a nervous breath, and then he’s leaning forward, tugging Kurt closer by the collar of his shirt. Their lips touch. It’s gentle. Blaine kisses him quickly and pulls away. Just once. Then he leans back in a second time and kisses Kurt again, a barely-there whimper in his throat.

Kurt doesn’t know how far is too far; he doesn’t know how much Blaine wants. His hands find their way to Blaine’s hips anyway, and he holds on while Blaine presses for more, pushing until Kurt stumbles and backs into the wall for support. It’s not the most refined kiss he’s ever had, but somehow it’s still one of the best. What Blaine lacks in skill he makes up for in intensity. Things are almost  _too_ intense, crowded against a hard surface.

When Kurt turns his head to pull out of this kiss, breathing hard, Blaine instantly backs off. His lips are red and already a little swollen where they’re pursed in a concerned frown. He looks apologetic, still afraid, and Kurt shakes his head while he catches his breath.

“It’s okay,” he promises, reaching out to grab Blaine’s hand. It twitches in his grasp, but Blaine doesn’t close his fingers around Kurt’s in return. Kurt looks at Blaine’s face and then over to the bed, saying in a shy voice, “I just need something more comfortable than a wall.”

It takes only a moment for Blaine to follow his gaze. Kurt feels the other man’s hand fidget nervously in his own, but he’s closing the distance between them again, kissing Kurt once, softly, and making no protest when Kurt walks him toward the bed. He lays down first, and Blaine moves so quickly to join him and reattach their lips that Kurt hardly has a moment to get comfortable against the pillows before he’s weighted down.

Kurt starts undoing the buttons on the front of his own shirt. Blaine doesn’t seem to notice until the last button is freed and the Avox’s hand brushes over exposed skin the next time he moves to touch Kurt’s chest. He’s startled again, and he pulls back to stare. Kurt looks even paler than usual next to Blaine’s tan complexion.

“It’s okay,” he says again. “You can touch.”

Blaine’s Adam’s apple flutters in his throat. His fingers tremble a bit, but Kurt thinks this time it may be from a kind of excitement rather than fear, because Blaine’s eyes are darker than Kurt’s ever seen them, dilated pupils watching his own hand drag down the length of Kurt’s torso. His other hand joins in soon after. Kurt huffs out a quiet laugh when Blaine caresses his sides, pressing down where he’s ticklish.

A smile is playing on Blaine’s face, too. Kurt doesn’t think he even realizes it, which is the most wonderful thing of all. It warms his heart to see the man behind the molded, rigid Avox once more, the same beautiful face that had lit up in momentary, childlike bliss inside the small housing unit in District 9.

It doesn’t take long, however, for Blaine to retreat into himself again. When Kurt finally sits up, nudging Blaine back a bit farther on the mattress, he shrugs off his own shirt and reaches for Blaine’s without thinking. A nervous sound passes through Blaine’s lips. He doesn’t push Kurt’s hands away, but he does touch his fingertips to Kurt’s wrists, stalling. Kurt hasn’t forgotten the way Blaine had been so petrified a few days ago when he’d been seen while not fully clothed. He’s determined to make Blaine feel wanted despite the scars he carries, inside and out.

“Let me in,” Kurt whispers, fiddling with the hem of Blaine’s top. The uniform is a rough fabric that almost makes him want to grimace. He wishes he were allowed to make Blaine something softer. “Please.” Kurt lets go, lifting one hand up to Blaine’s face instead, brushing his cheek. “You’ve got to let someone in.”

Blaine is perfectly still for a moment. Kurt worries that he’s pushed too hard. Even though he can see the evidence of Blaine’s arousal tenting his pants, Kurt thinks the Avox might pull away completely. To his relief, when Blaine finally does move again it’s to nod a few times, quick and jerky, like he’s also afraid of changing his mind. His hands brush against Kurt’s when he reaches down and pulls the uniform up over his head. He throws it clean over the edge of the bed. As soon as it’s cast aside, Kurt dives in, leaning forward and kissing down his chest. Blaine’s breathing goes shallow underneath his touch, but his hands are petting over Kurt’s hair encouragingly.  _Don’t stop._

Kurt has no intentions of doing so.

There are several more start-stop roadblocks along the way, but not all of them are caused by anxiety or fear. When Kurt strips off his tight jeans and palms himself through his briefs, he nearly topples off the bed in surprise at the muffled howl that Blaine emits, face screwed up and turning pale. It isn’t until after nearly half a minute of Kurt frantically worrying over him—Blaine having sagged down and collapsed onto the mattress in a silent daze—that he realizes Blaine had simply come in his pants. Kurt can’t blame him for having the lasting ability of a 16-year-old; he doesn’t suppose Avoxes have much opportunity for sexual relief. He spends the next five minutes chuckling at Blaine’s dopey grin and utterly content sighs, kissing his face and the scar on his shoulder.

After the first orgasm it doesn’t take much convincing to get Blaine naked. Kurt pulls off his last article of clothing, too, and he lets Blaine straddle his hips and rut against him until his cock fills out again.

When he slips out to his own bedroom to grab a condom and lube, Kurt is terrified that Blaine will disengage before he’s back. Without Kurt there kissing him, he knows there’s a chance Blaine will let his mind and the Capitol’s harsh training get the best of him. He can almost see the panicked expression on Blaine’s face as he scrambles to dress and right himself. Kurt feels no shame in sprinting back to the guest bedroom as soon as he’s found what he’s looking for.

He finds Blaine reclined on the bed, eyes closed in a state of relaxation that Kurt has never seen him in. He’s touching himself and taking no care to hide his pleasured moans. Kurt joins him on the bed, reaching down to rub his inner thigh while he leans in and kisses Blaine’s parted lips.

“Do you know how this works?” Kurt asks, holding up the supplies clutched in one hand. He has no reason to assume Blaine’s sexual knowledge goes anywhere beyond the already-established fact that kissing, touching, and friction feel good, and that orgasms feel even better.

Blaine shakes his head. There’s a vulnerable glint in his eyes.

It’s not the easiest conversation Kurt’s ever had, made even more difficult by Blaine’s inability to ask any questions he has. He explains everything as simply but thoroughly as he can, trying not to be too amused by the confused expressions that appear on Blaine’s face. Not for the first time, Kurt wishes desperately that Blaine could speak, if only to hear him voice the question written so plainly on his face: You put it  _where?_

Eventually Blaine has a good grasp on the mechanics. Kurt knows that’s not enough.

“And, um, you know, this is often something shared between two people who really care for one another,” he says softly, looking down at Blaine relaxing on his back, his hand idly stroking himself as he listens. “It- Well, it  _can_  mean more than just the physical. It can do things to your heart, too.”

“Of,” Blaine says. Kurt blinks, never unsurprised by sound coming from Blaine’s mouth.

“I’m sorry, I don’t…”

“Of.” Blaine points to Kurt’s heart. “ _‘ove_.”

Kurt has trouble breathing for a second.

“Right,” he says. “Love. It can be about love.”

Blaine smiles.

“And sometimes, even if it isn’t about love, peoples’ hearts can get confused and think it  _is._ That makes them hurt. I don’t want to hurt you. I want you to be sure you’re okay with this, Blaine. Are you?”

Blaine sits up to kiss Kurt on the cheek. He nods, lays back down, and rolls over onto his stomach, looking up at Kurt from where his head rests on the pillow.

Even though Blaine understands what’s happening, Kurt knows it doesn’t make the stretch of a first time any easier. It takes what feels like an eternity to open him up, and Blaine’s tears are just as numerous as his moans. It’s worth it, though, when Kurt slides home, both of them gasping, and he lays flush against Blaine’s back. He can feel the jagged scar that crosses diagonally over Blaine’s spine pressing against his chest.

Blaine is the first one to move, rocking back against Kurt’s weight. He groans, and Kurt lets himself move with him, gently coaxing Blaine onto his hands and knees to make it easier on them both. Like the first, Blaine’s orgasm arrives rather quickly, but Kurt doesn’t stop, holding Blaine up as best as he can while he thrusts right through the other man’s afterglow until he, too, reaches the peak and topples.

Like their kissing, it isn’t the most technically perfect sex Kurt’s ever had. It’s rather brief, and it’s rather quiet. But Kurt can’t recall ever feeling more satisfied than he does when he’s discarded the condom and curled up against Blaine’s back, kissing the nape of his neck and slipping an arm around his waist to hold him close. Blaine cups his hand over Kurt’s against his abdomen and threads their fingers together.

For twenty long minutes they rest, until Blaine stirs. He rolls over and points to the nightstand, flattening out his palm and miming writing with his other hand. Kurt leans over and digs through the drawer, finding the pencil and notepad and handing them over. Blaine begins to write as quickly as he can. Misspellings and mistakes are a frequent occurrence, but Kurt finds he doesn’t care as the notepad pages are filled one after the other and he reads along at Blaine’s side.

Blaine writes about the scar on his back, from a public whipping in the square when he was only ten years old, his blood spilled for dozing off when he should have been working.

He writes about the scar on his shoulder, from a Peacekeeper’s bullet that grazed his skin when he was twelve.

He writes about the treasonous crime that committed him to a life of silence and servitude, about a panicked child who had been so terrified of the Games that he’d tried to run away the night before his first Reaping, and that he’d been made an Avox as a “merciful” alternative to execution.

Kurt can't help the tears that well up in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m so sorry.”

Blaine shakes his head and sticks out a single finger to wipe the tear tracks from Kurt’s face.

 _I’m okay,_ he writes. Kurt wants to believe him. Blaine sets the notepad aside and seals his words with a kiss.

In the morning, in Blaine’s bed, still naked, Kurt wakes up alone. Blaine’s uniform is gone from where it had been crumpled on the floor a few hours ago. When Kurt pads out into the hallway toward the bathroom, he smells pork sausage and eggs wafting from the kitchen. A quick shower is all he needs; he doesn’t want to completely wash away the night before. Ten minutes later he’s dressed and presentable, and he walks into the dining area to see a place for one, fully set on the table.

Kurt sits and, as if on cue, Blaine comes in from the kitchen with a breakfast tray to set before him. He’s in his uniform with a stoic face. Kurt’s heart sinks a little at the sight. Of course he knows that Blaine must fall back into his role. No matter what happened the night before, he’s still going to be picked up today and expected to be just as submissive and compliant as the day he arrived on Kurt’s doorstep.

That doesn’t it make it any easier to see his beautiful face returned to such a bleak expression. Maybe not all is lost, however.

“Thank you,” Kurt tries, breaking protocol to thank the servant. He glances up.

Blaine doesn’t lean in for a slow, sweet kiss. He doesn’t try to vocalize in response. But his face softens, breaking the mask. He smiles.

Somehow Kurt knows that what they've made together will never fade. The sparkle in the Avox’s eyes makes Kurt hope that Blaine is certain of it, too.

When breakfast is over, after he’s washed the dishes and returned them to the cupboard for the last time, Blaine disappears to the guest bedroom in silence and closes the door behind him. Kurt checks up on the Games purely out of obligation, finding that his interest in them is utterly gone, and if anything, replaced with budding distaste.

The inevitable can't be avoided. The knock on his door arrives. It’s some Capitol official in charge of Avox affairs. Kurt greets him warmly, invites him inside, and answers all of his questions about the Avox’s performance over the last three weeks. Blaine must hear their voices from the bedroom, because he appears without being summoned and stands off at the edge of the room, head down, hands behind his back, invisible.

The official shakes hands with Kurt, congratulates him on his participation in the Games, and calls the Avox to follow as he makes his way toward the door. Blaine hurries after him, and Kurt has to bite his tongue to keep from saying a parting word. Blaine has one final smile for him while the official’s back is turned. Then he’s suddenly over the threshold, pulling the door closed behind him.

Kurt hears a vehicle pull away from the curb.

He feels part of himself pull away with it.

The Games continue and finally conclude with a dramatic ending of two Victors from District 12, the Girl on Fire and her star crossed lover. Blaine is god knows where doing god knows what. And Kurt is at home, turning down invitations to social events. He has no desire to go out with friends and pretend that everything is perfectly fine. He can't fool himself into ignoring the way his heart aches in his chest.

Kurt doesn’t have the strength to enter the guest bedroom for a week. When he finally does he sees that Blaine has left it in pristine condition, with fresh sheets and fluffed pillows on the bed.

The picture of the Avox and his family is nowhere to be found. In the very back of the nightstand drawer, however, rests the small notepad, still filled with Blaine’s messy handwriting. Kurt flips through it, through Blaine’s story, and finds another page that hadn’t been there before.

For the first time since Blaine left, he lets the tears fall, happy and sad.

_Kurt:_

_I’m going to President Snow now, I think, to work in his kitchen with a few more Avox. Don’t worry. I’m not scared._

_I never forgot the boy at the Training Center. Pretended I didn’t know because I was afraid. They would send me away like the first time. I didn’t want to leave the only one from the Capitol who was ever kind to me._

_But I knew. I always knew it was you. I won't forget._

_Blaine_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here at the end, I'd like to share a song with you. ["Walls" by Benton Paul](https://play.spotify.com/track/1KSf4KlaM0hSTtRdXLkbva) just sort of butted its way into becoming the theme for Bread of Life as I wrote the last few chapters, and I feel like it captures a lot of the nuances of the fic itself. It's certainly not mandatory to listen to, but I'd feel amiss if I didn't mention it at all. -- Also worth mentioning is that I have a few tentative plans for some one-shot companion pieces in this AU verse, which I'll post to AO3 if they ever move from my brain onto the page. You can follow me on Tumblr at [khal-blaine](http://khal-blaine.tumblr.com/), or track the "[khalblaine fic](http://tumblr.com/tagged/khalblaine-fic)" tag, if you're interested in staying updated on my work!
> 
> Finally, most importantly, thank you all so much for reading. I've never enjoyed writing anything more than I enjoyed writing this story. Please let me know what you think, if you feel so inclined! I appreciate every comment and bit of kudos so much. ^_^


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